Marching On
by Starcrier
Summary: Or, "Five Kisses That Don't Count, and One That Definitely Does." It's a story about kisses, sure, but it's also a story about them, because if there isn't a them, then there aren't any kisses, and that's not much of a story, now is it? In which the fifth member of the A-Team is female, and may or may not be developing strange feelings for a certain psychotic pilot. Murdock/OC
1. Hand

_Marching On_

 _(Or, Five Kisses That Don't Count and One That Definitely Does)_

 **Hand**

Red loves Face. Really, she does. Loves him as if they'd shared the same parents, and would take a bullet for him without even blinking.

Right now, however, if he'd been standing in front of her, she'd probably knock those pretty pearly whites he's so proud of clean out of his head. As it happens, Hannibal might just do it himself when this is over.

He'd told them both a thousand times that this job was going to be delicate, that they had to stick to the plan, and then as usual Face had gotten distracted by a pretty girl – who also happened to be the target's _wife_ , because Face doesn't do anything by halves, including _screw_ _up_.

So now she's in some dingy garage in the middle-of-nowhere Mexico listening as her superior officer is beaten savagely in another room. She's normally proud to be so proficient in Spanish, but right now she's wondering if it would be better if she'd hadn't been able to understand what, exactly, Tuco's thugs are planning to do with them.

Hannibal has a plan to get out of this, because he always does, but he's not always the best at sharing crucial details so she's got no idea what she's supposed to be doing other than struggling fruitlessly to free her arms from where they are cuffed together and suspended above her head. She keeps a dozen hairpins in her braid for exactly this scenario, but they're a bit hard to reach since she's dangling about a foot off the floor with no way to leverage herself. Not to mention this position is _murder_ on her shoulders – she's actually pretty sure one of them is dislocated, but she'll deal with that later.

A quick glance around the room reveals nothing but shelves of various auto parts, likely from stolen cars, and a table and chairs to her immediate left, the surface of the former littered with tools and the disassembled remains of her sidearm.

In the next room, the sounds of fists meeting flesh have stopped, as, mercifully, have Hannibal's grunts of pain, but she can hear them talking about shooting him and she's _highly_ aware that this is most likely about to end poorly.

With a sigh and a mental promise to slap the handsome right off of Face's stupid face, she jerks her legs and grits her teeth against the pain in her shoulders as her body starts to swing to the side. She does it again and again, praying that the rattling of the chains goes unnoticed by Tuco's men in the next room.

Apparently it does, because they're still talking about shooting Hannibal with his own gun, which she's pretty sure isn't going to work, probably. She manages to hook her ankles around the back of one of the chairs and barely holds in her cry of victory – she'll have to move fast. Carefully, using all the upper body strength she has left and ignoring the agony in her shoulders, she drags it back, miraculously managing to maneuver it in front of her without knocking it over.

In the next room, someone says something about a firing pin, but she's too busy trying to catch the toes of her boots on the edge of the seat to bring it under her to hear the full sentence. Her legs almost give out beneath her, but she manages to keep them steady, and she sighs in relief when she finally gets her footing on the seat of the chair. She keeps the wrist of her left arm, the one she suspects is dislocated, braced against the top of her head while her other hand searches frantically through her hair for a bobby pin.

She gets it free of her braid just in time to hear the purr of an engine as the men leave and the fierce snarling of dogs in the next room, and with a frustrated curse she presses the pin into the cuffs. The angle is weird and her hand is unsteady, but after a few tense seconds the first cuff clicks open – she mentally thanks the previously-detestable Face for the lock picking lessons – and she begins work on the next one.

The dogs have stopped snarling and she can't hear any noises of distress from Hannibal, which is a good sign, but he might be hurt and she has to get free, has to help him –

There's another tiny click and the final cuff snaps open, and in the next instant she's off the chair and heading towards the door so fast she actually plows into the colonel, who has somehow managed to get free all on his own.

It figures.

"Oh good, you're alive," she says, successfully hiding how concerned she'd been, and his eyes twinkle with amusement. He's got a few red welts on his face that will fade into bruises, but he's still puffing on that ever-present cigar of his so he can't be in too much pain.

"Good to see you too, Red. Come on, we have to get to Face," he replies, turning towards the door as a pair of whimpering pitbulls, cuffed together at their collars, trot by, struggling to free themselves.

"Yeah, so I can kill him," she mutters, trailing after him and hissing in pain when she carefully tries to move her left arm. Yeah, it's definitely dislocated.

His attention is back on her in a moment, in tune as he always is with the condition of his men, and her face heats as she feels him scan her for injury.

"Dangling from the ceiling is nowhere near as fun as it looks," she quips in an attempt to keep him from worrying, but it fails spectacularly.

"Which arm?" he asks, moving closer, and she grits her teeth in anticipation.

"Left," she replies, expecting him to count down before snapping the joint back into place. But this is Hannibal and he does nothing of the sort, instead bracing his hands against her shoulder and popping it back into position as soon as the word leaves her mouth.

An embarrassing shriek of pain bursts from her throat before she can stop it, but he doesn't seem to notice as he scans her for further injury. His expression darkens ever so slightly at the bruises on her face and wrists, but she won't allow him to coddle her, not like this. She didn't get to be a lieutenant and an Army Ranger by being weak, and she's not about to start now.

"Thanks," she says, before quickly picking up the pieces of her sidearm and reassembling them with practiced speed. She slides it back into her holster before nodding at the colonel, and the pair of them race into the desert to save her idiotic friend.

* * *

Bosco "BA" Baracus is a giant of a man, with a rough, mean look about him that had worried her at first. But his van is nice, and his dedication to his old position despite being burned by it is nicer, so she patches up the wound Hannibal had caused as best she can until they can make it to the army hospital a few miles away.

The rescue had been sloppy and half-cocked, something she knows irritates Hannibal to no end, which is why Face is currently being read the riot act as he tries to defend his actions. He's trying to play it off like it was about rescuing Tuco's wife and not Tuco himself, which would have been super noble if they all hadn't known it was bogus.

"Come on, Red, back me up here," her friend tries, and without even looking away from her bandaging she reaches back and smacks him upside the head.

"Dislocated my friggin' shoulder for you, man," she mutters as Hannibal laughs, "you're lucky I didn't light you on fire myself. In fact, I still might."

Her task finished, she retreats to the back of the truck where Face's newest beau is mercifully quiet, and listens as her friend and BA get acquainted. The former corporal is quite obviously a good man, underneath the rough exterior, and she likes him at once. She can tell Hannibal does too – she recognized that gleam in his eye when they'd been swapping stories on the way to rescue Face.

It's the same gleam that roped _her_ into this madness to begin with – she rather suspects she'll have a new teammate before this fiasco ends.

* * *

She ends up getting more than one, actually, or so she realizes when she rounds a corner in the hospital hallway to see Face shouting at the top of his lungs at BA, who is holding another man in a lab coat by the throat.

"Hannibal!" she yells, because he's the one who thought enlisting someone called "Bad Attitude" was a good idea, and races forward, wedging herself between the two struggling men. The position is a vulnerable one, but despite the fact that she can hold her own as well as any man in combat and has largely been accepted as "one of the guys", she has yet to meet a man in the US military who hasn't faltered at the thought of physically confronting her just because she's female. BA is no exception, yelling something about stitches and lightning but immediately backing away from his victim, who's actually _laughing_.

The man is handsome in an unkempt way, she supposes, with wild hair and wilder eyes and a smile that seems like it wants to leap off his face – it takes her less than a second to understand that, whoever this man is, he's absolutely, unquestionably insane.

"You got a death wish, man?" she asks above the noise, mostly just to gauge how he'd react, and he doesn't really respond other than to wink at her.

And then Hannibal is there and the yelling finally stops, and she finds out the grinning "doctor" is, as she suspected, not actually a doctor but a pilot-turned-mental-patient called Murdock. And apparently he's the one who's supposed to fly them out of here.

Face and BA protest, of course, and she feels like she probably should too, but she knows Hannibal and knows that he's not about to be swayed. And she trusts him, and if he really believes this psycho is going to be able to get them to safety, then it's good enough for her.

Also…

There's a moment, just a brief, tiny flash, when Hannibal tells Murdock he's been reinstated that something about the pilot seems to brighten, to relax; his wild eyes suddenly _burn_ , with desperation or excitement or something else, she isn't sure, only that it makes her heart break for him, just a little bit.

Having him fly them out of here might be worth a shot, she thinks, if it can put that kind of look on his face.

Even if she is fairly certain one of them will most likely die in the process.

* * *

She turns out to be wrong, to her surprise, though there had been a close call with BA there at the end – she's pretty sure Murdock didn't _mean_ for the former corporal to go flying out of the helicopter, but he doesn't seem that apologetic about it, either.

It hardly matters though because Tuco is finally dead, and after being tied up by his thugs and witnessing what he almost did to Face, she's pretty satisfied with the fact that he's no longer in the land of the living.

Face has jokingly called her "Mama Bear" on more than one occasion, and she figures the name fits fairly well. If his chopper hadn't been blown out of the sky, she'd have found another way to make sure he bit the dust, regulations be damned.

Her stomach is still churning when they land at the base in Los Angeles, and BA is muttering "never again" over and over, and Face and Hannibal are still celebrating his brilliant plan and how well it all worked out, but all she can do is take in their newest arrival.

He's grinning like a fool and taunting BA like he's been doing it for years, jumping up and down like a toddler on speed. His accent switches from Southern, then to Irish, then to South African, and finally to something oddly operatic as he talks about all the stunts he wants to do next time and all the ways he wants to cut it closer, and she finally interrupts him just as he starts theorizing about involving C4 and parachutes.

"Captain Murdock," she says, slowing her pace to lag behind the rest of her boys, who don't seem to notice.

The pilot stops and looks over at her, a bright smile on his lips that makes something dangerously like affection twist in her chest. "Yes Ma'am?" he says, tipping that ratty cap of his.

That's probably the moment, _the_ moment, but she won't realize that until much later. "You're one hell of a pilot. Thank you," she says.

His smile shifts then, and she isn't sure how, exactly, doesn't know him well enough to identify the way varying emotions rest on his face, but she realizes then that she'd like to be able to, eventually. She _can_ tell that it's similar to how he'd looked in the hospital, at least, when Hannibal told him he was being reinstated and his eyes had gleamed like someone had handed him a winning lottery ticket.

"Anytime, Ma'am," he replies with a mocking bow, actually removing his cap and sweeping it in front of him like some sort of gentleman. The mental imagery makes her want to smile.

"Red."

He looks up at her, brow furrowed in confusion for the first time in the wild hour that she's known him.

"The name's Red, Red Wayne. You don't have to call me ma'am. I'm a Ranger, just like you – and you outrank me, anyway."

"How'd you get a name like that?" he asks, straightening up and walking alongside her as they resume their pace towards the building ahead. He's constantly fidgeting, she notices, drumming his fingers or twisting his shirt or adjusting his hat. She wonders if it's a side-effect of his mental condition or if he simply has too much energy in his system – she'd bet it's probably a little bit of both.

She gives him a look and gestures to the hair that's trying its very hardest to spring free from the braid she's had it in for the last two days, the color of which is reminiscent of fire engines and overripe tomatoes. She's had the nickname ever since she was a little girl and is heartily grateful for it, because her real name is atrocious – though not, she concedes, as atrocious as Face's.

He seems to consider this, then, to her immense surprise, takes her left hand and kisses the back of it rather gallantly before she can react. "Captain Howlin' Mad Murdock, at your service, Lady Red."

For a moment, she's frozen. She's broken noses, jaws, fingers, wrists, and kneecaps belonging to those who have made advances that she very clearly conveyed were unwelcome, but she senses no ill-intent here – he seems to be entirely innocent of what he's doing, as though this sort of behavior is perfectly normal.

 _Well_ , she thinks with something like a resigned sigh, _maybe for him it is_.

And punching him would feel a little like kicking a puppy, anyway. He's a Ranger and she's seen the way he flies so she knows he can more than hold his own, and he's very likely lethal in combat, but there's something about him that makes it hard for her to muster up any sort of indignation at all. He's not harmless, perhaps, but he's not a threat, either.

"Just Red, not lady, you dolt. And that can't be your real name."

His eyes twinkle at her as they once more resume their walk into the building. "Maybe not, but it fits better, so that's the one I use."

She understands that better than he knows, but feels the need to tease him anyway. "I'll get it out of you somehow."

"Ya sure? Lots of people have tried before, ya know, with no success."

She cocks an eyebrow at the challenge in his tone, then grins at him. She likes him, she decides, a whole awful lot, and is suddenly very glad Face screwed up so badly after all. Every team should have a psycho on their side, and there's no reason why he can't be theirs.

"We'll just see, Howlin' Mad."

And together they enter the base, smiling like a pair of idiots, and Red supposes that's where it all begins.

 **A/N: Yay for the five and one trope of a super-obscure fandom with a super-obscure love interest! Sharlto Copley is life, ya'll, and Murdock is a precious lil cinnamon roll. This is gonna be like six chapters, maybe with an epilogue, idk. Since a couple of people said they liked what I did with** _ **Midnight in the Garden**_ **but wished it had been broken up into distinct bits, this is for you. Hope you enjoy!**

 **Also, as a brief aside, yes I know that during the time this movie was set, women in the US military weren't technically permitted to serve in combat roles like the one Red has. But this is Hannibal we're talking about, and if he can reinstate a certified lunatic** _ **and**_ **someone who was dishonorably discharged on a whim, then he can pull a few strings to get Red on his team. The A-Team seems to operate by their own set of rules; that is to say, none whatsoever.**

 **That's my story and I'm sticking to it.**

 **I only own Red Wayne, everything else belongs to the creators of** _ **The A-Team**_ **. The title is taken from one of the best OneRepublic songs of all time, and all of you should go listen to it right this moment.**

 **Hope you enjoy, review, favorite, follow, all that jazz.**

 **Sincerely,**

 **Starcrier**.


	2. Forehead

_Marching On_

 _(Or, Five Kisses That Don't Count and One That Definitely Does)_

 **Forehead**

Red is not overly thrilled upon discovering they'd been assigned a job in Venezuela, but the rest of her boys seem excited to take down a murderous drug lord so she resists the urge to complain.

If she's being honest, most of her ire stems from the fact that she's a horrendously poor choice for undercover jobs, and lo and behold, that's exactly the kind of harebrained scheme the colonel concocts on the flight down.

It's not that she's a bad actress, because Hannibal would likely disown her if that were the case, it's just that on a lot of ops like this one, it becomes necessary to blend in, and with a skin tone a shade lighter than "marshmallow" dotted liberally with freckles that cover every inch of her body, well.

She tends to stick out, just a little bit. And that's not even taking her hair into account.

These traits are particularly noticeable in South America, where natural redheads are fairly uncommon. This would be why she's currently being forced to wear a dark wig that irritates like hellfire in the heat, and all of her visible skin is slathered in enough makeup to choke a horse. It's partially to cover her complexion – her skin has only two natural settings: "Frosty the Snowman's Albino Cousin" and "Lobster at a Five Star Restaurant" – but also to hide her battle scars, because this getup leaves surprisingly little to the imagination and the refined, delicate lady she's supposed to be playing wouldn't be sporting the kind of marks she has.

The dress they've got her in is nice, at least, even if she hasn't worn one in years – it's a shimmery, silky baby-blue affair that makes her yearn for the open skies in her home state of Wyoming. It's open-backed, which is the worst, but it's slit to the thigh, which is convenient, so she figures it evens out. The stilettos pinch but her old dance instructor would have killed her if she'd forgotten how to move in them – which, thankfully, she hasn't. She could probably wrestle someone to the ground in these puppies if she needed to, though hopefully that won't be necessary.

She's on Face's arm at this particular gala, held in some government bigwig's massive mansion, playing the part of the doting lover with ease. It's a simple role, one they've used before, and he looks suitably dashing in a designer suit with a pocket square that matches her dress.

It's all very routine, at first. Face sweeps her onto the dance floor with a charming smile and just the right amount of banter, and all the while the two are expertly casing the room, scanning for security, cameras, additional exits… and their mark, Pablo Cabello, who is leaning casually up against the bar, surrounded by a flock of giggling women.

" _Stay on Cabello. I want him in your line of sight at all times,"_ Hannibal's voice echoes from one of her diamond-drop earrings, and she gives a grunt of acknowledgement, covered by a smile.

Face dips her, and uses the cover to murmur into his own earpiece, "I don't like it, boss. He seems pretty relaxed for a move this big. Are we sure the intel's solid?"

" _It's solid, Face."_ The way Hannibal says it leaves no room for doubt, and so naturally the two of them don't, because for as long as they've known him, the colonel has never let them down.

They take another turn around the floor, maneuvering easily through the throng of dancers.

"You've gotten a lot better," she remarks dryly as he gracefully brings her back up from another dip, "maybe I won't have to ice my toes later."

"That was ages ago, are you really still upset about that?"

"You were wearing _steel-toed_ boots, Face."

"So were you!"

"You weigh a ton, idiot."

" _Children,"_ Hannibal's amused voice echoes down the line, and the two of them snap back to alertness at once. They finish their dance with a final twirl, and, perfectly on cue, she begins to fan herself and bat her eyelashes coquettishly at Face, who kisses her palm tenderly and escorts her to a chair, before moving off to get drinks.

And if he happens to brush up against Cabello on the way, well. It's a crowded room, lots of people jostling – the perfect time to plant a tiny listening device on the hem of his jacket. He returns with two flutes of champagne, which Face drinks but Red only pretends to, and they wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And dance some more.

And wait.

Face makes small talk with other partygoers after a while, elaborating on their backstory with ridiculous ease while she blinks innocently from the sidelines, content to play the role of the china doll stereotype while actually watching her partner's back for any sign of a threat.

She's just about to excuse herself to the restroom in order to report to Hannibal that the intel was bad, that Cabello's not moving the drugs tonight, and that they might as well regroup and go to plan B or C or whatever Hannibal's likely already moved on to, when there's movement in the corner of the room.

A well-dressed Venezuelan man like all the others enters the ballroom, having arrived to the mansion well past fashionably late, and makes his casual but steady way towards the mark.

She toys with the idea that he's not involved, possibly just a friend or a business associate because of how relaxed he seems, but then the gaggle of women that have been following Cabello around all night scatter with suspicious alacrity, and she nudges Face away from his conversation with an uppity banker.

" _Mi amore_ ," she murmurs in a local accent, pressing a hand to her forehead in the universal gesture for discomfort. Face gets the message at once and excuses them, taking her elbow gently and guiding her by the small of her back to the terrace, away from prying eyes.

There are other couples out here, but they are… otherwise engaged in the cover of darkness, which has only recently fallen; she and Face are not likely to be overheard. Still, she fans herself like she's been overheated while her partner makes small noises of comfort and strokes her arms.

"Hannibal, we've got movement," he murmurs, "somebody's talking to Cabello now, they look like they're getting ready to leave."

They have a good vantage point to Cabello and his associate from here, and she can see the way the former seems to go tense, _oddly_ tense, and the pair of them exchange a final few words before splitting off and exiting the ballroom.

"Hannibal, he's moving. I think it's happening now," she murmurs, and she can hear the sound of a cigar torch flicking to life.

" _Stay on both of them. You know the drill."_

She and Face exchange glances, then, by wordless agreement, separate – she tails Cabello and he takes the partner. Within moments her friend is completely obstructed from her line of sight, and she's on her own.

The heels make stealth somewhat difficult, but it's manageable, and she manages to pursue Cabello out of the room and through a series of eerily abandoned corridors without being spotted. She's not sure where he's headed, exactly, because while he's moving with purpose, she's memorized the layout of this mansion and the path he's taking doesn't lead anywhere special.

It's enough to make warning bells go off in her head almost at once, but not enough for her to take action, not yet.

He rounds another corner, just up ahead of her, and she counts to five in her head before following, grateful for the long rug that now muffles her steps.

That thought is instantly replaced by one of confusion, because Cabello is quite suddenly and without warning nowhere in sight. She opens her mouth to report to Hannibal, reaches down for the gun she's got strapped to her thigh because something is very wrong here, she's known it since she started tailing him –

And then a footstep, just behind her, and she whirls, fist raised to strike – too slowly, apparently, because all at once there's a massive burst of pain in the back of her skull.

 _Hannibal's gonna kill me,_ she thinks as the ground rushes up to meet her, and everything goes dark.

* * *

"Wake up, _chica_."

This conversation is going to be irritating, she can already tell.

 _Okay, situation analysis._

 _Limbs?_ Intact but restrained, specifically to a chair.

 _Injuries?_ Only what feels like a pretty spectacular goose egg on the back of her head, and possibly one on her temple from hitting the ground.

 _Clothing?_ She's still wearing some. Excellent.

 _Team?_ Crap, her _team_.

She shifts as though slowly rousing to consciousness, internally cringing both at the sudden movement of her aching head and the fact that she can't feel the weight of her earrings/coms. Her gun, rather predictably, is missing as well. Awesome.

"Hey, _rojo_ , wake up." It's a different voice from the first one, and she knows without having to open her eyes that it's Cabello. And if he's calling her "red" then it confirms her suspicion that whatever – and whoever – had knocked her out had also succeeded in knocking that heinous wig loose. Small mercies, she supposes, and opens her eyes.

"There she is," says Cabello, grinning broadly inches from her face, and she cocks an eyebrow at him the way she's seen Hannibal do when encountering particularly stupid individuals.

She's in the basement of the mansion, apparently, which is extremely cliché but probably the most convenient spot for what's likely about to turn into an interrogation, and she wonders if Face has noted her absence yet.

"Not so pretty anymore, are you?" murmurs the drug lord, glancing pointedly down at her clothing, and she risks a glance at herself. Her dress is ripped and wrinkled, which she's not exceptionally bothered by because it had served little purpose other than to help her blend in, and her designer heels are scuffed beyond repair – that one bugs her a little – but on top of all of this her makeup has begun to melt down her skin in disgusting streaks, leaving a grotesque patchwork of stark white and deep tan all over.

Well, she's looked worse.

"You thought I was pretty?" she asks, batting her eyelashes, and whatever Cabello had expected her to say, it's clearly not that. He straightens and withdraws from her, and another man – clearly the one who had spoken to her first – takes his place.

"Who are you?" Cabello asks, and she smiles.

"Mmm, depends on the day."

A grunt from Cabello has the second man's fist slamming into her jaw the moment she's done talking. So it's going to be _that_ kind of evening. Great.

She blinks to clear the stars from her vision and frowns, turning back to stare at him. "That was _extremely_ rude."

"I'm not in the mood to play games, _rojo_. Who are you, and why were you following me?"

She works her jaw, knowing it's going to bruise later and that Face will give her no end of grief about it. "I'm Lieutenant Red Wayne, and I was following you because I'm going to arrest you."

A moment of silence, then another grunt from Cabello and another burst of pain, this time in her ribcage.

"You aren't going to do much arresting tied to a chair like that, huh chica? Where is your lover, hmm?"

"Who?" she asks once she's regained her breath.

Another punch, and this one makes her head spin.

"The _gringo_ you attended the party with. He tried to follow my informant, but got away before we could catch him."

"Oh," she says, nodding and tonguing a delicate spot in her mouth where she's pretty sure she's bitten her cheek, "you mean Face. He's not my lover, he's my partner. And he's probably back with my boss."

Cabello frowns, probably because she's so relaxed about the whole situation, and leans close. "Who is your boss?"

"The United States Military," she says, "but specifically, Colonel Hannibal Smith."

The moment Hannibal's name leaves her mouth, Cabello goes practically yellow with fear, pacing away from her and carding his fingers roughly through his previously-immaculate hair.

"The Alpha Team," he hisses under his breath, and a flash of pride overtakes her at the fact that he knows exactly how dangerous they are. It's only been six months since Mexico, since the five of them started working as an exclusive unit, and they've already gained remarkable notoriety.

"Yes, and you'd be doing yourself a huge favor by turning yourself in, before my boys show up and gut you and José over here like a couple of fish."

Cabello makes an almost distracted gesture, and this time his man hits her six times in rapid succession. She spits blood when he's done, feeling oddly, dangerously lightheaded, like that one time she'd let Murdock cook a steak for her using his secret sauce.

He _had_ been sorry for not telling her it was antifreeze beforehand, and he'd visited her in the infirmary every day to play cards and even let her pet his invisible dog Billy, whom he'd otherwise guarded jealously.

Her wandering mind is brought sharply back into focus when Cabello storms over and yanks her hair, pulling her head back so far it becomes difficult to breathe. He stares down at her for long moments, and she wonders if it's a side effect of her association with Hannibal that she can tell exactly where his thought process is going.

"Miguel," he finally barks, throwing her head back down and stepping away, and she braces herself for another hit – and is somewhat surprised when nothing happens. Instead, the two men walk to the other side of the room and begin whispering in Spanish, apparently operating under the assumption that she can't hear or understand them.

But she can do both, quite easily, and can't entirely keep the smile off her face upon discovering what they're talking about.

 _Hannibal was right, the Senator_ is _funding the cocaine shipments,_ she muses, and then grins a little wider, _Face owes me twenty bucks._ She figures eventually he'll learn that betting against the colonel is essentially flushing money down the toilet, but until then she's gonna continue to make a killing off of his stupidity.

She catches the back end of Cabello telling Miguel they have to move up the timetable, and quickly wipes the smile off of her aching face, trying to act something close to how a typical damsel in distress would appear in this situation.

She's not sure she's pulling it off, though, because Cabello is still scowling at her. "We'll take her with us," he orders, "Smith won't dare make a move if we've got one of his own."

And if that hadn't been exactly what she'd wanted him to say, she would have laughed.

* * *

The convoy is at least ten trucks long, maybe more, which isn't exactly subtle but then, Cabello is panicking.

This is a good thing, actually, even if it does mean that Miguel and another two thugs are in the back with her, submachine guns locked and loaded and ready to fire at the slightest sign of trouble. Miguel is facing her, leveling her with a steely glare, and his friends are to her right and left, doing the same, and it would be boring if she wasn't on high alert.

The vehicle is military-grade but light, designed more for speed than anything, and she can tell they're probably pushing ninety. If she had to guess, she'd say it's close to two in the morning, and the road the convoy is taking leads through open fields in the middle of nowhere.

It's practically an open invitation for someone like Hannibal, who hates civilian involvement or even awareness, really, and the first explosion comes from behind them about ten minutes after they've left the city. He'll be in his own car, she muses, as will BA and Face – much more efficient that way.

In the front, Cabello immediately begins snarling orders in rapid-fire Spanish into a walkie-talkie, but apparently to no avail because two more explosions, followed by subsequent crashes, echo through the night around them.

He swivels around to glare at her, as though she is personally responsible for his trucks going up in smoke – and she _is_ , but he's got no idea just how much. She flashes him an innocent smile and he curses at her before turning back around and switching on the loudspeaker mounted on top of the car.

"Colonel Smith, I have your woman in the car with me! Stop immediately or I will kill her! Do you understand!?"

And then there is a volley of machine-gun fire overhead, followed by a massive screech as the loudspeaker is blasted to smithereens, and Red has her orders. Her hands are cuffed in front of her, which shows they aren't total morons, but it's too bad for them that she'd counted on that.

She grins fiercely at Miguel, who tenses like he knows she's about to try something, but it's far too little, far too late. Red kicks out with her foot, knocking his weapon to the side just as it goes off, and the man to her left slumps down.

Her heel, still in those gorgeous stilettos, finds its mark expertly in Miguel's jugular. Hot blood splashes up her leg as he gurgles, but she's not even looking at him as she snatches the barrel of the gun to her right, pulling it forward and using the momentum to send her elbow into the owner's nose. Dazed, he doesn't have time to fight back when she pops the handle of the gun up into his chin and then again into the center of his forehead, and he joins his partners on the floor.

There's the click of another gun cocking then, still distinctive amid the noise of gunfire and explosions around them, but she's already leveled her own newly-confiscated weapon at Cabello, and for a second, they're in a very literal Mexican standoff. _Well, Venezuelan_ , she supposes, as the drug lord sneers at her.

He knows he's done for, has to know it, and this is where he's gonna get very unpredictable, very fast. "What's your play now, chica?"

Unfortunately for him, she makes her living on unpredictable.

"Hannibal's always got a plan, Mr. Cabello," she says with a smile so wide it hurts her face, "we didn't know who your buyer was in the States – Senator Richmond's gonna have a pretty awkward day tomorrow, wouldn't you say?"

His face contorts in a disbelieving snarl. "You little –"

"And these really, really nice shoes?" she continues, still smiling, still triumphant, because she's a Ranger and she's on the A-Team and Murdock is above them both, cackling over a loudspeaker of his own as he blows Cabello's men to kingdom come, "They're not Dolce and Gabbana… er, well okay, they _used_ to be, before Corporal Baracus outfitted them with nifty little trackers. You see, Mr. Cabello," she delivers this statement with her most blinding smile yet, "we couldn't, for the _life_ of us, figure out what route you were using to ship your drugs."

She watches as the realization hits home, that she'd _meant_ to be captured, that she'd told him exactly what he'd needed to know to panic, to get sloppy – she'd given him the exact length of rope he'd need to hang himself, and she'd done it while tied to a chair.

The rage is expected, and she sees the moment his finger tightens on the trigger, times it exactly right, and beats him to it.

The shot rings out, echoing in the small space, and a heartbeat passes as what she's done seems to register – Cabello is still very much alive, to what is clearly his own surprise, but the same can't be said for his driver. His desire to shoot her outweighed by his desire to survive, the drug lord drops his weapon with another snarl and lunges for the wheel instead.

She pitches herself to the floor, unfortunately across Miguel's body – which still has one of her heels imbedded in his throat – as the car immediately begins to careen out of control. There's a curse from up front as Cabello struggles to steer but can't get to the pedals around the body of his driver, and she decides it's time to make her exit, _yesterday_.

She kicks off the remaining stiletto and fumbles for the handcuff keys in Miguel's pocket, smiling when she emerges triumphant. Her wrists are burning and bloody but free, and she swears in frustration when her _stupid_ dress tangles around her as she fumbles to roll down the window.

Cabello is still cursing at her, but he's all but forgotten as she sticks her head out, waving for Murdock, who's flying in circles like a bird of prey around the convoy. Apparently he's been waiting for her, though, because he comes back around almost at once and flies low, _crazy_ low, alongside their truck.

"You are _insane_!" she hears Cabello cry out from behind her, evidently realizing what she's about to do, and she spares a moment to smile at him.

"Nah, _he's_ insane," she says, gesturing out the window with a wink, "I'm just the pretty one, remember?"

And with that, she carefully sticks her legs out, one at a time, and perches on the window ledge. Murdock swoops in as close as even _he_ dares, but there's still a foot of distance and they're doing almost one-twenty now, she knows it –

But she can see him inside, and his voice over the loudspeaker is telling her to jump, that she'll make it, that he'll be there, and he's smiling like the lunatic he is and it calls to the lunatic in her, too. So she jumps, entirely barefoot in that ridiculous dress and there's no way, _no way_ she's gonna survive this –

There's a shock as her toes meet the metal of the landing struts and she slams against the passenger door, nearly bouncing off of it, but Murdock had been right, she'd made it, and they both share a matching whoop of triumph as she carefully maneuvers the door open and slides inside. And just like that, she's safe.

"Red, that was crazy! You're crazier than me!"

"We all know that's not possible, Captain!" she calls back, and she's achy and bloody and disgusting but safe, and he's here and laughing and safe too, and so are her other boys, and as one they take out the remaining cars in the convoy with extreme prejudice. Cabello is the only one they leave alive; Hannibal and BA and Face herd him with ridiculous ease to a tree line where he can go no farther, and they've finally got him.

And then it's over and she and Murdock are whooping in the air, celebrating like a couple of morons, and when they finally land her legs are shaking and her head is heavy but she feels so, _so_ alive.

She doesn't know what possesses her other than the sheer joy of success and surviving something she shouldn't have, but without even thinking about it, she leans over, removes Murdock's cap, and plants a big, smacking kiss right on his forehead – and oh look, she still had a little lipstick on, isn't that something.

There's a beat where neither of them does anything, both a little too stunned to move, and he looks about as dazed as she feels – and addressing it will only make it worse, so she just rolls with it, winks at him and hops out of the cockpit, running to the rest of her boys.

"Red, that was insane, I can't believe you jumped, that was –" Face pauses in his habitual celebration as she comes closer, and apparently he can see her fully now, illuminated in Murdock's headlights. " _Geez_ Red, are you alright?"

Hannibal magically appears out of nowhere at the question, immediately taking stock of her injuries. BA, growling threats, finally moves to their side from where he's got Cabello trussed up and tied to the hood of his own truck, and for a moment, she's almost smothered by the attention.

"I just killed a guy with my stilettos," she says without much heat, "I'm _fine_. It all looks worse than it is because of this frickin' makeup."

"I thought the plan was to get taken while _conscious_ ," says Hannibal, tilting her head forward to examine the knot, and she doesn't flush with embarrassment or anything but she feels like she might want to.

"Yeah, he got the drop on me, sorry. But I'm fine, seriously." He gives her a dubious look in reply but doesn't push the issue further, for which she's immensely grateful.

She _does_ ache though, and her head hurts like a mother now that the adrenaline's starting to wear off, so she doesn't protest much when Hannibal orders her to wait in one of the cars while they radio for an evac.

He'd brought her a spare set of clothes, her wonderful colonel, and she spares a second in the cover of darkness to change into her fatigues and boots. She feels a little more human now, and closes her eyes for a moment to rest, resolving to burn the dress later. Or maybe she'll turn it into cleaning rags or something, BA always needs more of them…

The darkness is her own for about ten minutes, and then she gets that distinct prickle on the back of her neck, telling her that she's no longer the only person in her space. She opens one eye to find Murdock standing there, a bottle of water in one hand and a cold compress in the other. Relieved, she accepts them gratefully, draining half the water in seconds.

"Thanks Murdock."

But he's quiet, and that's almost never a good thing. She places the compress on her head and leans back, looking at him. "Something wrong, Howlin' Mad?"

He opens his mouth, and then closes it again, and then does it twice more, and when her eyes land on the lingering lipstick stain on his forehead she realizes she's probably made him uncomfortable with the kiss. She'd only been playing ( _no_ , _really_ ) and had gotten caught up in the moment ( _even though she hadn't kissed Face or BA_ ) but she knows Murdock typically only likes being touched on his own terms and she very likely crossed a serious line.

She sits up, ready to apologize because nobody has a right to touch anybody else without that person's express permission, she knows that better than most, but he beats her to it.

"Can I have my hat back?"

She looks down, and yep, sure enough, she hadn't given it back when she'd taken it off of him in the helicopter. Refusing to look sheepish, she hands it to him, and he plops it on his head rather primly.

"Thank you."

It's silent again, save for the noises he makes when he's fidgeting, which is always, but it's broken when he speaks. "You sure you're okay?"

He sounds _sane_ , and that's almost worse than quiet – though admittedly not by much.

"Do I look that bad?" she asks, trying to laugh it off, but his face is serious and so is his reply.

"Yeah."

She looks down, taking stock, and notices that her hands are _covered_ in blood, some of it her own, but most of it from the men she'd killed, and that she's bleeding in a few places and severely bruised in others. She can feel that her mascara has leaked from sweat and has dried in tacky rivers on her face, which she knows is just as bruised and bloody as the rest of her.

No wonder her boys had made such a fuss – she probably looks half-dead.

But it's okay, because it could just as easily have been Face in that basement chair – the plan had hinged on one of them being captured, and it was essentially luck of the draw – and she'd rather it be her than him any day of the week. That's why, despite the dirt and pain and exhaustion, her answer is entirely sincere.

"Yeah, Murdock, I'm okay."

He gives her one of _those_ stares, the really intense ones that aren't crazy at all but terrifyingly _clear_ , like he's seeing through her and weighing what he finds. It's not a pleasant expression and she wonders what horrors he'd have to have suffered to develop a look like that. She doesn't shift under his gaze, but it's a serious struggle not to.

And just like that it's gone, and he nods and climbs into the car next to her, rummaging around in his bag and tossing her a pack of Twizzlers.

" _Yes_ , Murdock, you're a lifesaver."

"Well, that _is_ my job."

She gives an unladylike snort in reply and bumps his shoulder, and he grins at her in a way that makes her stomach twist. They sit, and eat, and rest, and in this moment, they're alive and they've won and they're together, and despite the pain, she wouldn't have traded any of this for the world.

"Tell you what, though," she says, grinning around her strawberry licorice, and he cocks an eyebrow at her.

"What?"

"Next time, Face gets to wear the dress."

 **A/N: This one kind of got away from me, but I'm happy with it, so there you go. Hope you enjoyed!**

 **I only own Red Wayne, everything else belongs to the creators of** _ **The A-Team**_ **.**

 **Special thanks to** : Hallow Bird, LoverOfTheMusic, and my Guest for reviewing **, as well as those who fav'd or alerted!**

 **Don't forget to leave a review, let me know what you think!**

 **Sincerely,**

 **Starcrier**.


	3. Wrist

_Marching On_

 _(Or, Five Kisses That Don't Count and One That Definitely Does)_

 **Wrist**

It should have been a simple job. Easy in, easy out, few casualties, no witnesses – quick, clean, efficient. It's Hannibal's preferred method of handling things, even if few of their jobs actually end up going so well.

That's partially why none of them are surprised when this one doesn't, either.

Their target hadn't been at the drop-off, which is Red's first indication that this is probably going to end badly. Oh, the intel had changed hands, as it was supposed to, and they'd rather forcibly confiscated that with no issues, but acquiring it had only been half the assignment.

Apprehending Hatem Mosad, who's recently been suspected of funding terrorism and supplying enemies of the United States with highly advanced weaponry, is the other half, which would be no problem except that he's paranoid and _slippery_ , irritatingly so. Seizing a list of future targets will only be so helpful if they don't catch the man himself, which is why they'd come to his homeland of Egypt in the first place.

So now Hannibal's resorted to Plan M, Sub-plan B, or something to that effect, and they're taking the fight directly to Mosad – and when Hannibal says "directly", he always means it in the most literal, dramatic sense of the word.

Which is why the five of them are about to break into a highly fortified compound that they'd been ordered, in no uncertain terms, to keep out of until reinforcements can arrive.

Red has always privately suspected that Hannibal starts hearing circus music in his head whenever someone orders him not to do something, and this only proves it. One day she figures it'll get them all into trouble, but it hasn't yet so she simply basks in the thrill of breaking the rules with her boys and suits up alongside BA.

The plan is startlingly simple in comparison to the colonel's normal schemes: Hannibal and Face are going to ram an armored car through the front gates, drawing fire and attention alongside Murdock, who will be flying overhead – he's also their extraction, but BA doesn't know that and she's got a sedative in her pocket for when he figures it out – while she and the corporal, as the two best in physical combat, will sneak in behind the line of fire and do the actual work of retrieving Mosad. From there, all they have to do is get him to the roof, where Murdock will be waiting, and the pilot will provide the cover for Hannibal and Face to make their escape, and they'll be home free.

Hardly foolproof, but they've gone up against worse odds, and she feels a twinge of excitement shoot through her as she and BA scale the wall on the opposite end of the compound from where the colonel is wreaking havoc.

There are still guards here, of course, because Mosad's a suspicious little weasel, but they're so easy to take out it's a little bit ridiculous, and she flashes a grin at BA as they make their way across the courtyard and towards the main building. Hannibal had guaranteed Mosad would retreat to his panic room when the assault began, a virtually-impregnable underground bunker – impregnable, of course, unless you had the access codes or the right weaponry, which is what all the C-4 in BA's pack is for.

Mentally, she goes over the blueprints of the compound – provided very helpfully by one of the weaker links in Mosad's metaphorical chain when they'd confiscated the intel – and she can tell BA is doing the same, and he gives her the hand signal for "left" when they reach the back door of the building.

He kicks it down because he's built for that sort of thing, and also because breaking things makes him happy, so she covers his back, and the two of them make their steady way down the hall.

There are very few hostiles at first, most of the group having split off to either confront Hannibal or presumably guard Mosad's bunker, and taking them out is a cakewalk.

And then they round a corner that opens up into a large room at least three stories high, and come face-to-face with no less than ten very armed, very determined men.

The thugs are taken by surprise. She and BA aren't.

They'd been cautioned against using their guns unless absolutely necessary, since remaining unnoticed by Mosad and the goons attacking Hannibal is somewhat crucial to their plan, but the thing is that neither she nor her partner have ever needed bullets to kill anyone, and now is no exception.

The hostiles are trying to fire at them but can't, really, because she's thrown herself into the fray, too close to their own men to risk shooting – meanwhile, BA has resorted to his preferred method of lifting men bodily into the air and throwing them several feet away.

She's seen very few people walk that off, and these don't quite manage it, either.

Her knife flashes out, deadly and glinting in the poor light, and three are dead in a matter of seconds. BA's taken out four of his own – she'll have to work to catch up now because Mosad's men are already scattering, yelling something in a language she doesn't speak but doesn't need to in order to understand they're trying to alert others.

Well, that simply won't do at all.

She races after one and all but leaps onto his back, wrapping her legs around his waist and using the momentum from the jump to twist her upper body and bring him to the floor beneath her – the knife flashes again and she's already moving on. BA _roars_ somewhere to the right of her, as he has occasionally been known to do in the heat of battle, and she hears the distinctive crack of someone's neck breaking.

In the next second, the room is lit up with gunfire, and Red swears as she drops into a roll to take cover behind a pile of crates. Apparently reinforcements have been alerted. Hannibal's gonna be so pissed if they lose Mosad because of this, and that's _so_ not a lecture she's in the mood for today.

"BA, cover me!" she calls above the noise, and she hears him return fire, buying her enough time to roll out from behind her crate and make her way to a stack of pallets where some of Mosad's men are clustered.

She springs on them before they can react, using the nearby wall to launch herself and managing to get her legs wrapped around the neck of one man – her weight makes them both topple over, but she's already drawn her sidearm by the time she hits the ground. She fires on the remaining three, and subdues the man still struggling under her by expertly twisting until she hears a crack.

Flicking an errant strand of hair out of her face, she scrambles back to her feet, holstering her sidearm in exchange for the AR-15 she's got slung over her back, and fires at the rest of the hostiles in the room, covering BA for his turn to pound a few thugs into submission. They carry on this way until the room is clear, alternating between pummeling and covering as they have dozens of times before, and finally regroup at the other end of the room.

"So much for stealth. I thought we talked about the 'mighty roar' thing?" she says, panting with exertion and checking her mag. This one's about half full, and she's got another one on her belt, and another few rounds left in her sidearm. Hopefully that will be enough to get Mosad and get them out of here.

"It ain't a roar, woman, it's a manly grunt 'cuz I'm throwin' people around. I'd like to see you try to do it quiet," says BA, doing a similar weapons check, and she covers him.

When he's ready, they step out from behind the crates where they've taken temporary shelter and head for the corridor ahead of them that will lead them directly to Mosad's bunker. BA takes point again and she watches his back, because that's her job – rear guard is almost always her default position when they're on assignment, and with what happens next…

Well. What happens next is why.

There are two balconies above them, one on the second floor and one on the third and they've remained empty for the entire fight, and Red knows that because she'd been checking, keeping an eye on the high ground the way Hannibal had drilled into her. She takes one last sweeping glance of these balconies as BA leads them out, and she almost misses it on the second floor, that telltale glint, the familiar flash that she's witnessed dozens of times in her years in combat, and it's that familiarity that allows her to react on instinct.

"BA, get down!" She pivots and tackles him from behind before she's even finished speaking, normally a difficult feat but not right now, not when she's fueled by adrenaline and terror and the ferocious, all-consuming drive to _protect_.

A volley of bullets strike where BA's head had been not a millisecond earlier, but they're on the ground now and she's braced herself over him. Recovering quickly, BA rolls them both back into the cover of their crates, and it's his turn to shield her as he returns fire.

She'd help, really she would, and she wants to, except that there's this furious explosion of pain in her lower back, penetrating all the way through to her abdomen, and there's blood, so much blood, which doesn't make sense because she's wearing body armor but there really is just so _much_ –

"Red, you alright?"

The gunfire has stopped now, which must mean that BA's taken out the sniper, and that's good because she doesn't want to be shot again, but more than that she doesn't want him to be either.

"Ya gotta look at me, mama."

Oh, right, focusing. She forces all the pain from her wound into her little mental box and locks it firmly, as she does with any feeling or emotion that's inconvenient or unhelpful to a mission, and forces her gaze up from her bloody lower half to BA.

"I'm alright," she says, but talking hurts and breathing does too, and the colonel's gonna have their heads for this.

"Hannibal," BA murmurs lowly into his comm, and has to repeat himself because their CO is apparently still preoccupied with obliterating Mosad's men, "we got a problem."

" _My four favorite words,"_ says Hannibal, and the grin in his voice suggests they just might be, _"what's wrong?"_

"Red's been shot."

There's an unsettling moment of silence, then: _"How bad is it?"_

He's definitely not grinning anymore, because she knows that chilly, biting tone – he's _pissed_ , honest-to-goodness hellfire pissed off, and she can't actually tell who it's directed at. Hopefully not her, for being stupid enough to miss a sniper until his bullet was already in her gut.

"It went straight through her stomach, man, she's bleedin' all over the place. We gotta abort."

"No!" she barks out, trying to sit up and biting back a scream from the pain, "I'm fine, we can still get him. This is too important."

" _Red –"_

"I said I'm fine, we gotta move. Keep going on your end, tell Murdock our ETA is ten minutes."

"Can you stand?" asks BA.

 _I don't have a choice,_ she thinks, but replies with a simple affirmative instead, and he helps her make her shaky way to her feet. She almost immediately falls back down again, which is so, _so_ irritating because they absolutely do not need this right now.

"Colonel," she says, trying to distract her mind so she doesn't do something stupid, like pass out from agony, "be advised, they have armor-piercing rounds."

There's a moment of tense silence on the other end, broken only by the sound of machine-gun fire and Face calling out taunts in the background, before he finally replies. _"Noted. Be careful, Lieutenant."_

"Red," BA tries again, and she scowls at him.

"We don't have time for this, BA. I'll be okay. Take point, I'll cover you. We gotta move, man."

He gives her a last, wary look, and she gestures to the doorway pointedly because every second they spend deliberating over this is another second Mosad could be thinking about taking his chances outside his panic room and making an escape. They'd lose him in the fray, she just knows it, and she's not about to let them screw this up over her.

Finally, he turns and moves towards the door again, and for a horrifying second she almost loses her grip on her gun because her hands are so slick with her own blood. The world spins, and she contemplates the floor, and how nice it would feel to lie down on it for a while.

 _No_.

Cursing, she wipes her hands, one at a time, on the part of her fatigues that aren't already soaked with blood and readjusts her grip. She forces the pain and dizziness and yes, _fear_ , back into that little box, grits her teeth, and moves forward.

Finding Mosad is almost laughably easy now – it's the one doorway guarded by a herd of thugs, and a well-thrown grenade resolves the worst of that little snare. She and BA pick off what's left, and with another suitable application of high explosives, they're dragging Mosad, quite literally kicking and screaming, out of his bunker.

She knocks him unconscious with a little more force than is strictly necessary with the butt of her weapon as BA slings the man over his shoulder, but she's in pain, _serious_ pain now, and the blood still hasn't stopped flowing and it's taking everything she has just to keep her gun level, to stagger behind her partner as they make their way up the three staircases to the rooftop.

Murdock is already there, chopper blades whirling, and oh yeah, she'd almost forgotten about this part of the plan. BA doesn't have time to keep his guard up as he slings Mosad none-too-gently across the floorboards of the aircraft, and she fumbles for the syringe in her pocket.

"Red! What happened?" Murdock calls to her as she slams the needle into the back of BA's neck, and watches as he slumps down in a matter of seconds across the backseat. It takes every ounce of strength she's got left to maneuver him so he's fully inside.

"Got shot!" she calls back, making her way to the passenger side – she's seconds away from safety, from relief, from being able to collapse next to her friend and breathe in the elation of completing another successful mission, but then there are shouts behind them. Before she can think to move, to hoist her gun, to fire, a terrible, white-hot agony greater than anything she's ever felt hits her dead in the center of the chest.

She hits her knees, and is distantly aware of someone screaming her name behind her. She opens her mouth to reply back but blood spills out instead, welling up in her throat, cutting off her air supply, bursting through her teeth.

 _Oh_ , she thinks as an odd sort of calm washes over her, _I'm going to die._

Except that she's Red Wayne, fourth generation military and the first woman in her family to gain rank, and she's not about to just keel over and give up like some background character in a B-rated action flick.

Sure, she's dead meat, but if she's going, then she's gonna take a couple of these douchebags out with her.

She lifts her gun and fires without any sort of aim, without ever lifting her finger from the trigger, merely sends a spray of bullets in the direction of the enemy. She's vaguely aware of someone joining her, firing alongside her, which for some reason doesn't make sense and should in fact alarm her, if not piss her off entirely, but she can't remember why, can't care because she's dying, coughing up blood even as she spills more.

And then her gun clicks, the magazine empty, and it's quiet except for the roaring in her ears and the chopper blades thump-thumping above her, which she's always thought sounds a little like a heartbeat except hers is slower now, not so much a thump as a flicker.

There are hands on her arms, and she's faintly aware of someone yelling, mostly her name but also Hannibal's, and then she's floating, her only tether to the world a raspy, familiar voice and the inexplicable scent of engine oil and wood smoke and something sharply sweet, like burned sugar, slicing through the tang of blood and sweat.

She spares a last, satisfied thought that the ones that killed her _only_ killed her, didn't get her boys, didn't take them from her, and if the price of that is her life, then she's more than glad to pay it.

And then there's nothing.

* * *

Actually, there's beeping.

It's a shrill, constant sound, steady except for when it isn't, and it's grating on her nerves something fierce.

There are distant voices too, and she somewhat recognizes them, except for when she doesn't, and something about that prods at her, tries to get her to do… something. Something that isn't floating here in the dark, which would be fine except that doing anything else sounds exhausting, and she doesn't feel like it.

So she lingers.

She doesn't know how long, only that it's long enough for her to grow bored, because while the floating is nice, she's supposed to be doing something, she's _wired_ to do… something.

That "something", however, is still a mystery, so she lingers a little more despite the way it gnaws at her.

It takes her longer than she cares to admit to realize that that "something" involves consciousness, and even longer than that to figure out what that means and how to make it happen.

So she pushes at the dark, tries to make it go away, and it does, by degrees. Eventually the darkness becomes speckled with color, with sights and sounds and people, which isn't consciousness but instead its cousin, _dreaming_.

Which, okay, is kind of nice, because there are Important Things here, like the older man with the brilliant, kind eyes, and the handsome man with the blinding grin, and the dark man too with his Mohawk and growl, and then…

The other man, the wild one her brain doesn't know how to sort because he's Teammate, and Friend, and Brother, but also something else, a little bit more, and she doesn't know what it is and thinking on it too long makes the color around her fade from strain, makes the darkness come back and she doesn't want it, has come too far to slip away now.

So she lets it go, and the dreams play on.

But there's more, she knows it, and that "something" from earlier is back and stronger, telling her to wake up, that she's got a job and no one else can do it, that it is extremely crucial that she be awake _right now –_

Only it's too soon, a dangerous kind of too soon, but she feels her body jerk anyway, feels it move somehow upright and she can't make sense of what is and what isn't so when she registers sound, movement, voices, all of it tinged with alarm, she reacts.

There's a silhouette to her left that has the shape of man, and he's familiar in a way she knows well but can't unravel, and she also knows this man is armed, nearly always, and since the roaring in her ears is screaming about the need for a weapon she snatches his from the holster that she knows almost never leaves his belt.

More movement, ahead of her, and there's pain all over her body and in her head and hair and _breath_ , but her most basic instincts know guns and how to handle them, how to make them as much a part of her as blood and bone, and the weapon is cocked and aimed even if she doesn't quite remember doing it.

All movement comes to a halt, and she tilts her head, jarred by the sudden absence of noise and shadow that had been so overwhelming mere moments ago. There's stillness and silence but she's not back in the dark because there's color and there's _beeping_ , faster than ever before, but it's still too much and none of it makes any sense, and she contemplates firing just so she knows what's going on.

There's a familiar voice now, low and soothing and talking about a color – no wait, that's her name – and telling her something about the gun in her hand.

It wants her to put it down? That makes no sense, she's only just got it, it fits her, it's familiar, it's _part_ of her – this must be some kind of trick. She tightens her grip and decides she's going to fire, that will prove she knows what she's doing, that the voice is wrong and she's got this.

And then another voice, much more urgent but no less familiar, and this one registers, penetrates the haze of instinct in her head, reminds her of helicopters and opera at three in the morning and a ratty old ball cap and _crazy_ , and it wants her to put the gun down, too.

Not it. _He_.

"Murdock." She's not sure who said that but her throat hurts where it didn't before and she suddenly realizes there's a shape in front of her that matches that name – and she's got her gun aimed right at it.

"That's right, Lady Red, it's me. Put the gun down, okay? Ya don't need it here, we gotcha." His voice comes through clearer now, easing her tension, relaxing her muscles, and the pain slams back into her like a freight train.

She wants to keep holding the gun though, because it's familiar and she needs it, because how else…

How else is she going to protect?

 _That's_ the something she was supposed to wake up for, she knows that now, except she can't do it, _can't_ be awake and hold the gun because it's not time yet, and she feels herself slump, feels the weapon leave her hand, and that incessant beeping finally evens out in the background.

Someone is calling for a nurse and another someone is saying her name and yet another someone has a cool hand on her forehead, and it takes her a second to realize that maybe she doesn't need to protect right now, because everybody seems mostly okay.

She lets that thought wrap around her, cradle her, and allows herself to fall one more time.

The darkness is waiting to catch her.

* * *

She comes awake with a groan and a series of coughs that agonize her whole body.

The heart-rate monitor – so _that's_ what that beeping was – picks up slightly in the background, and she can hear movement to the left of her. A warm hand touches her own, large and calloused and firm, and she knows who it is without having to open her eyes.

"Hey… Bossman." Her voice is a soft rasp, hoarse from disuse, and for whatever reason it is extremely difficult to catch her breath in order to talk. When she finally gathers enough strength to open her eyes for the first time in what feels like centuries, she almost immediately feels the urge to close them again.

She's in a hospital room, which she'd figured already, and light is streaming in through closed blinds on a window on the far wall. Hannibal is beside her, looming over her, and the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles.

"Hey, kid. How ya feeling?" He looks utterly exhausted, with bloodshot eyes and at least a week's worth of stubble on his chin – it's the first time he has ever seemed _old_.

"Like I got… run over… by a tank," she answers truthfully, because literally every part of her body hurts, and she narrows her eyes at him as best she can. "When was the… last time you… slept?"

He gives her a strange look. "You remember anything about what happened?"

She very suddenly can't meet his gaze, thoroughly humiliated but fortunately too exhausted to blush. "Got shot."

"Yeah, couple of times. Took a bullet to the right lung and abdomen, lost over half the blood in your body. Had us all worried there for a while."

She's got no clue to how to respond to that other than to apologize, and maybe she should but the words won't come, buried as they are beneath the weight of her embarrassment. She can tell, just from looking at him, that he or one of the boys has been in here with her round the clock for however long she's been under, and it's clearly taken its toll on them.

Her steadily-darkening train of thought is mercifully interrupted by the sudden arrival of the rest of her boys, murmuring lowly to each other as they enter the room. They all look as tired and unshaven as Hannibal, and if she'd had the energy she would have berated them for not looking after themselves.

"Hey, boys," she says instead, and each of their heads snap to look at her so fast it's almost comical, identical grins stretching across their faces.

"Red, you're awake!" Murdock calls, rushing to her other side while BA and Face take up positions at the foot of her bed.

"Nothing… gets by… you, huh Captain?"

"Good to finally see those pretty eyes of yours, Red," says Face, and if he's turning his instinctive charm on _her_ then she really must have been in a bad way.

"Feeling… is mutual, Faceman."

"Feelin' alright, sister?" asks BA, and she smiles faintly.

"I feel about as good… as you all… look. How… how long…?" _Honestly_ , why can't she catch her breath?

"You've been here for two weeks, Red," says Hannibal softly, and her humiliation burns even brighter. She'd held the team up for two _weeks?_

"How bad?" She can manage two word sentences without gasping for air, that's progress. The four of them exchange looks that have the very distinctive feeling of " _you_ tell her", before Hannibal speaks again.

"You flatlined twice, Red. And that's not counting the time you stopped breathing in the chopper on the way to the base."

She closes her eyes, absorbing this information. "And now?"

"It was touch-and-go for a while, but you pulled through. With time and rest, you'll be fine."

 _That's_ good news, at least. A thought occurs to her, and she opens her eyes again. "Did I… wake up?"

More glances are exchanged, and she huffs out an exasperated sigh that hurts… everywhere. "Just tell me."

"A couple of days after you got out of surgery, you sat up and grabbed Hannibal's gun," says Face with a grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes, "we couldn't reach you. Thought you'd figured out I was the one who'd been raiding your chocolate stash and were finally taking revenge."

"You're still the fastest draw in the West, even when you're unconscious," says Murdock lightly, perching on the edge of her bed, and now she remembers, the colors and the voices and the gun in her hand, the decision to fire and the face who would have been at the other end.

Horror drops like a lead weight in her stomach and she feels herself go pale with it. "I almost… shot…" She starts to cough now, _really_ cough, which hurts like a mother but that's okay, because it's as good an excuse as any to explain away the sudden, ridiculous burning behind her eyes. She hasn't cried since she was nine years old and that's not about to change now, but she almost shot her teammate, almost shot _Murdock_ –

A cup of blessedly cold water is pressed to her lips, and she can't quite manage to lift her hands to hold it, but that's okay because Murdock's got it for her, supporting both the water and her head. It takes a few agonizing minutes, but her fit finally subsides, and she lays back again, trying to remember how to breathe normally.

Four concerned faces greet her when the world shifts back into focus, and she musters up the energy to roll her eyes. "Stop… looking at me… like that. You… just said I'll… be fine."

"Regardless, we're gonna let you get some more rest," says Hannibal in _that_ tone, the one that says arguing will be utterly ineffectual, and she gives another sigh but doesn't bother protesting. She can already feel the darkness pulling at her, lulling her back into its warm embrace, and she smiles wanly.

"Only if you… promise to do… the same."

There are vague murmurs of agreement from her men, all except for Murdock, who nods at Hannibal as he takes up his former position at her right. The other boys say their goodbyes, each of them stopping to grip her hand firmly before they leave, and that burning behind her eyes is back, so she closes them to ward it off.

"You don't… have to… stay," she says when they're gone, and she can hear the grin in Murdock's voice when he replies.

"Sure I do. Somebody's gotta watch out for heffalumps and woozles."

"What?" She can't tell if he's making less sense than usual, or if she's just overtired.

"Nasty little things, steal your honey when you're sleepin'. But don't worry, I'll keep 'em away."

Laughing hurts but she does it anyway, and when she opens her eyes to look at him, he's grinning brightly, leaning back in his chair and watching her. There's a strange, foreign softness to his expression, one that confuses her, but she forgets about it when a sudden flash of memory surfaces at the forefront of her mind.

"Wait… did you… get out of… the helicopter?" He doesn't answer right away but he doesn't have to because she remembers, he'd gotten out like an _idiot_ and started firing alongside her, and anger flares bright and hot in her chest.

"You… you… did!" She can't quiet muster up enough strength to yell but she'd like to, and if she'd been able to lift her arms at all she'd have thrown something at him.

"You were _dying_ , Red." His voice comes out soft but deadly-serious, more serious than she's ever heard it before, but it doesn't matter because he'd gotten _out_ , he is never _ever_ supposed to leave the chopper on evac missions, not with BA and their target passed out defenseless in the backseat.

"That isn't –"

"No," he bites out, "you were dying, right in front of me. I wasn't just gonna leave you there. My job was to get you and Bosco and Mosad out of there. I did my job."

"You… could have been –"

"You can't do that," Murdock says, cutting her off again, "you can't go and get shot saving BA and not let us do the same thing for you. It doesn't work like that. Hannibal will tell you the same thing."

"It's… different."

"It's not," Murdock says flatly, and that's all the two of them say for so long that she nearly falls asleep again, would have, even, except that protective anger is still burning in her chest, kindled by fear and keeping her awake, because she'd nearly lost him twice in the past two weeks, and both times would have been her fault.

She'd wallow longer, but then he starts singing. He's always had a surprisingly good voice, and now is no exception even if his song _is_ about heffalumps and woozles, and some foreign emotion wells up in her throat and threatens to burst out of her. She doesn't know what it is, exactly, only that it's bubbly and bright and unwinds the mess of confusion and fear that's taken root inside her head. She laughs again, quietly so she doesn't miss a word of his ridiculous song, relaxing in the knowledge that he's alive and so is she, despite everything.

"Thank you, Murdock," she says, and he smiles at her again but doesn't stop singing, merely leans closer and takes hold of her wrist, so, so gently. He brings it to his mouth and leaves a sweet, fluttering kiss there that she can feel through her whole body, and it makes her feel like flying, like she could leap off the bed and do laps around the room without any kind of pain at all. She might have even broken her strict "no-singing" policy to join in if she'd known the words.

He releases her arm with a gentle squeeze but she grabs for his hand at the last second, holds it tightly and takes it with her as she slips again into the darkness, content to let herself be protected from the heffalumps and woozles of the world. Just this once.

The world falls away, everything fading to nothingness except for his voice in her ears and his hand in her own.

They don't let go for quite some time.

 **A/N: This was originally gonna be quite a bit longer but I managed to catch it just in time. Hope you enjoyed!**

 **I only own Red Wayne, everything else belongs to the creators of** _ **The A-Team**_ **.**

 **Special thanks to** LoverOfTheMusic and AFAN **for reviewing, and everyone else who fav'd or alerted!**

 **Don't forget to leave a review, let me know what you think!**

 **Sincerely,**

 **Starcrier**.


	4. Neck

_Marching On_

 _(Or, Five Kisses That Don't Count, and One That Definitely Does)_

 **Neck**

"This is a bad idea," Red states for what is approximately the twenty-fifth time in the last two days, staring into the lavish hotel room that for some ridiculous reason has only one – albeit massive – bed.

For the twenty-fifth time, her words are ignored.

" _It'll be fine, Red, trust the plan,"_ says Hannibal in her ear, and she scowls before crossing to the balcony doors on the far side of the room. It's both a terrible cliché and a major selling point that they can see the Eiffel Tower from here, perfectly framed in the fading light of the large windows that line the wall.

She scowls harder. _Paris_. The city of love, and lights, and most importantly, _crepes_ – and of course they aren't here on leave, because the world is rarely so gracious.

Behind her, Murdock kicks off his shoes and flings himself backward onto the bed, and she chokes back a laugh when he fails to bounce and instead sinks deeply into the overly-cushioned mattress with a comical _fwump_.

"Nice," she says with a grin, and he pouts, wiggling his way farther up the bed to relax back against the dozens of pillows that are stacked there. She knows immediately that neither one of them will be able to sleep on that glorified marshmallow – not after years of army cots and sleeping bags stretched over hard earth.

"You're really missing out here, Facey," says Murdock into his own earpiece, pulling his cap low over his eyes and placing his arms behind his head, feigning rest, "this bed is to die for. Like layin' on a cloud."

" _Yeah_ ," says Face, who is audibly grumpy about the whole thing, " _I know_."

"Too bad you took the term 'sleeping with the enemy' a little too seriously, huh Face?" she murmurs, and his annoyed groan makes her laugh.

" _For the last time, I didn't_ know _she was a con artist… you know, at – at that particular point in time."_

" _Sure do now,"_ BA mutters down the line, _"and now we gotta worry about that crazy fool ruinin' the plan with his crazy talk."_

"Hey!" Murdock fights his way out of the mass of pillows to sit up indignantly, as though BA can somehow see him – and as though it would make a difference if he could – and Hannibal cuts in with a not-so-subtle clearing of his throat.

" _We've been over this, guys, it's all under control. Red, you know what to do?"_

"Unfortunately," she says, the smile slipping from her face when she thinks about the little blue cocktail dress she's got in her bag.

" _Good. Now, BA's already swept your room for bugs, so you're secure on that end, but we all know how tricky Miss Moreau can be –"_ and here Face gives an odd little cough, _"so BA is going to be keeping constant surveillance on your room from the cameras we installed in the hallway to make sure she never gets an opportunity to plant any, or to try anything else. We've got to stay ahead of her at all times – lives are depending on it."_

"Copy that," she says, and hears the other boys echo the response. The comms go silent a few moments later, and she turns to look back out the window once more. Eloise Moreau is unique to their usual targets in many ways, because she's a perfect chameleon, eerily reminiscent of Face, and because she doesn't use weapons or brute force to get what she wants – usually – but instead can bat her eyelashes and anyone, men specifically, tend to trip over themselves to bend to her will.

And also because she'd gotten a hold of a list of undercover CIA agents, to be sold to the highest bidder within the week. Right now, that's supposed to be her and Murdock, posing as a pair of assassins, and they've got to pull out every move in their arsenal to make sure no one else has an opportunity to get their hands on it.

Red would feel so much more relaxed about the whole thing if it was Face beside her, because they've been doing this so long they're practically unstoppable. They _know_ these routines and can all but read each other's minds, can speak a private language engineered entirely around subtle hand gestures and significant looks. But for all Murdock's charms, and for all that she feels about him, she doesn't have that with the pilot.

There is nothing about Murdock that is in any way subtle, or understated, or even particularly sneaky, simply because his mind doesn't work that way. He's a good conman in his own right, but from what she's seen of him, his skills are limited to background work, not playing the face of the con the way he's supposed to be now. Hopefully she can manage to corral him long enough to get through their meeting with Moreau in – she glances at her watch – twenty minutes. _Awesome_.

"Ya look worried, Lady Red," he says from behind her, effectively snapping her out of her musing.

"You can't even see my face."

"I don't need to see your face to know you're brooding."

"I don't _brood_."

"Yeah ya do – you're doing it now. Ya got nothin' to worry about, Red – I may not be the Faceman, but I can run a con with the best of 'em."

She turns to look at him, eyebrow raised skeptically, just in time to see him sit up and wink at her. "Just watch."

He takes a moment to seemingly gather himself, and then, in one fluid motion, rises smoothly off the bed and practically _prowls_ toward her, his former grin fading into an expression unlike any she has ever seen on his face before. If she hadn't known better, she would have called it _predatory_.

"For instance," he all but purrs, and there's no trace of his natural Southern accent as a surprisingly authentic English one takes its place, "have I mentioned how utterly _ravishing_ you look right now?" He draws close, so close she can feel his breath on her face, smell wood smoke and chocolate and something spicy she can't name, and whoa, his mouth is like, _right_ there _–_

"Ravishing enough… to _kiss_."

 _Oh, too far, too far, danger, Will Robinson –_

"Howlin' Mad, if your lips touch me, I'll slug you," she says, forcing herself to sound amused and not as unbalanced as she suddenly feels. Not that a kiss from him would be like, a terrible thing, or whatever, it's just that this isn't like the Other Times, because _those_ were all accidental or friendly or just… _different_ , in a way she can't explain, but if he does it now, if he crosses that line just to prove a point, even as a joke… Well. She doesn't know how she'd react and isn't going to examine it any further in case she figures it out.

And because it's Murdock, he backs off immediately, giggling like an idiot and stepping away. "See? Ya got nothin' to worry about. Made ya believe me, didn't I?"

"Yeah yeah, just don't try to maul Moreau, or we'll be in real trouble. Now come on, we gotta change."

He gives her a mocking bow in reply and saunters off without another word, humming the tune to what sounds like " _Fever_ " under his breath.

She can only shake her head and move towards her bag, digging for her dress and trying not to think about the expression that had flashed through his eyes just before he turned away.

Because if she hadn't known better, she might have thought he hadn't been acting at all.

* * *

"Moreau, six o'clock," Red murmurs, adjusting the strap of her dress and trying to fade into her character: an aloof, emotionless contract killer. It's more difficult than usual, because Murdock is here, distracting her with his mere presence and his stupid smile and how ridiculously good he looks in that suit, and she can already tell this mission is going to be a nightmare on her self-control.

What she'd be controlling herself from doing, exactly, is a mystery she's not going to dwell on – she just knows she needs to keep the pilot at arm's length and everything will be fine.

They'd had little issue easing their way into the wedding reception that's being held in the hotel dining room, which is just as posh and extravagant as the rest of the building. She's not quite sure why Moreau would have wanted them to meet here, of all places, but Face had speculated that it's likely an attempt to confuse, to misdirect, and she figures he's probably the best one to judge these kinds of things.

The woman herself is standing at the bar, resplendent in a bright purple dress and matching kitten heels, and is flanked by a pair of burly men in dark suits. She has a wry look about her, as though she finds the world and everyone in it to be unbearably amusing. It's easy to see what drew Face to her, once upon a time – Moreau is lovely, with luxurious dark hair, a perfect hourglass figure, and misleadingly sweet peridot eyes.

Red, who has never lacked self-confidence and is usually quite comfortable in her own skin, immediately feels dumpy and awkward in comparison.

At her murmured report, Murdock takes her hand and twirls her easily onto the dance floor, moving with a grace equal to her own as they turn in a perfect waltz. Stunned into silence, she can only follow his lead as they move in seamless time with one another – she doesn't even have this kind of fluidity when she dances with Face, and she's been dancing with him for _ages_.

"Since when do you dance?" she asks, unable to take her eyes away from his and feeling a strange tug somewhere in the region of her chest – a tug that only grows more pronounced when he gives her a secretive little grin.

"I got bored on leave a couple years back," he confesses, "been teachin' myself since. Impressed?"

The answer is, of course, a definitive _yes_ , because she'd taken intensive dance classes for fifteen years before she'd enlisted, but for him to be this good after teaching _himself_ , and so recently? She's torn between near-resentment and something that's a little more than just _impressed_ – actually, there's a very specific term for what she's feeling, rattling around in the back of her head where she keeps other dangerous and stupid thoughts, but she tamps down on it quickly and only offers him a quirked eyebrow in reply.

"Your footwork could use some practice," she says simply, and it's the kind of deliberate, obvious lie that her dad would have made her lick a soap bar for telling as a kid, but Murdock just keeps grinning because he knows her well enough to see through it.

"So could your accent," is all he says, and she resists the urge to step on his foot. While Red can mimic many accents passably well, Irish has always given her trouble. She hadn't missed Hannibal's look of amusement when he'd given them their covers, and she has no doubt her assigned country of origin has everything to do with her hair. Murdock, of course, has no trouble with Irish or any other she's ever heard him attempt, but he'd gotten off easy and will be playing a Brit this go around.

"Cheap shot, Captain," she murmurs as they finish their waltz and begin to make their way over to Moreau's position at the bar. It's important that they maintain a professional but relaxed air in order to sell the con, so their movements are deliberate, but unhurried.

The woman's eyes drift over them casually as they approach, and while her expression is one of vague amusement, there's a particular look in her eye that makes Red think she's taking in everything about them, reading past what's right in front of her in order to seek out weaknesses to exploit.

Red takes comfort in the fact that she won't find any. Probably.

"What do you think of the wedding?" the woman asks idly as the pair of them halt by the bar, and while her accent is French, it's also very faint, as though her time spent globetrotting with some of the world's most dangerous criminals has dulled her connection to her homeland. Her head tilts, and her two beefy guards shift forward slightly, ready to react in a heartbeat if Red or Murdock give them a reason.

"The color scheme is lovely." Red gives the scripted answer in her newly-adopted brogue, breathing an internal sigh of relief when it comes out sounding genuine. Maybe a native would be able to tell she's a fraud, but Moreau only inclines her head, shifting her gaze to Murdock. Something flashes in her expression, something that makes her look of condescension drain away at once, to be replaced with a silky, sultry smile.

"Indeed – it's a very elegant ceremony, isn't it? And my wedding gift certainly isn't cheap."

Red drums the fingers of her right hand against her thigh, wishing Face was here to help her better interpret Moreau's layered manner of speaking – and figure out how to respond in kind. Red is pretty sure she means: _I have what you want, but you'll have to pay up._

"Oh, I'm sure _we_ could have afforded it," Murdock drawls haughtily in his clipped English accent, evidently hearing the same thing and saving Red the trouble of figuring out a way to reply. His smile is razor wire, a clear message that he won't be tolerating games for much longer, and she resists the urge to stare at him in surprise. Gone is the playful, teasing pilot – a man she has never met before has taken his place.

 _I never knew he could act this well._ She thinks about his display up in the hotel room and then promptly _doesn't_ , because now isn't the time for that weird feeling in her stomach.

Moreau looks endlessly entertained by him, her gaze flicking up and down his form before smiling wider, showing gleaming teeth that are rather more reminiscent of fangs. "I believe it," the con woman purrs, leaning forward and clearly emphasizing the deep cut of her dress, and the second Murdock's eyes inevitably flick downward, Red _despises_ her.

Jealousy wells, unbidden, in her throat, bitter and dark like one of Hannibal's favorite cigars – and it doesn't make sense because she doesn't have any kind of claim on him, can think of no reason an unattached, red-blooded male _wouldn't_ look when so clearly provoked. The feeling, however, not only remains but starts to _simmer_ , so she does the smart thing and stuffs it deep in her emotional lockbox to sort out later. She can't afford the distraction now – even if _he_ apparently can.

With a particular look in her eye that makes Red wonder if the woman knows about her sudden animosity, Moreau gestures to the beefcake on her right, and the man steps forward and extends a small envelope in Murdock's direction. "There's a charity auction at that address tomorrow at noon. It's a great place to look for a pricey wedding gift."

Beside her, Murdock goes still, and Red scowls. "You don't have it with you?" she snaps, partially from genuine annoyance and partially because it's what her character would be expected to do, and Moreau frowns at her for breaking away from their code.

"Of course not. I have to verify that you are who you say you are. The exchange will be made tomorrow, provided that you check out and that you have sufficient payment for a copy."

 _That_ stops them both cold. "A _copy?_ " Murdock clarifies, and Moreau's frown deepens.

"Well yes. Did you think you were my only buyers? You're paying for information, not exclusivity."

She and Murdock exchange a significant glance, and for whatever reason the con woman seems to find this hilarious. "Oh please. Are you afraid someone will kill your targets before you can? Dead is dead, darlings."

"Indeed," Red says as she locks eyes with the woman, and the warning that passes between them isn't an act, "we'll be at the auction tomorrow. Have the _gift_ ready."

Moreau smiles again, more honeyed than before. "Excellent." The con artist rises from her seat and steps close to them, so close they can detect the cloying scent of her perfume, lavender and oranges and probably treachery, if a person could smell like it. Murdock's fingers find Red's waist in response, drawing her towards him, and she allows it with a smile of feigned smugness. To anyone else, the movement would have seemed vaguely possessive, which is fine because it works with their cover, but Red knows it's got more to do with the fact that for all his apparent skill in this area – something she's still having a hard time getting her mind around – Murdock doesn't know this woman, and has never enjoyed strangers invading his personal space. Clinging to her no doubt helps to keep a grip on his anxiety.

Moreau may be pretty, but at the end of the day Red is still his partner, and the sudden rush of smugness she feels about this is probably pointless.

The con woman notices the action and laughs softly, undeterred and unthreatened by their apparent intimacy as she brings her face very, very close to the pilot's. Red can feel him go rigid, can feel the way the blood seems to still in his body. "And if you wanna have a little fun before then," Moreau purrs, tucking a slip of paper into the front pocket on his dress jacket, and if she kisses him Red will blow the mission just for the chance to break her pretty little button nose, she _will_ , "give me a call."

With a last, amused look at the both of them, she gestures to her guards and swans off, disappearing amongst the partygoers as though she had never been there.

There's a beat of silence, and then Red breaks away from Murdock's hold and grabs a flute of champagne from the bar, tossing it back like a shot of whiskey. And to think, she'd been worried about Murdock trying to kiss _Moreau_.

"You get all that, Hannibal?" she asks once her throat is clear, and she can hear his voice crackle to life over the coms.

" _Got it, kid. We're gonna have to alter the plan."_

She grabs another glass and downs that too, already feeling a headache building behind her eyes. "What, _us?_ Change a plan at the last second? Since _when?_ "

" _She's gonna sell that list to who knows how many people, Boss. How are we gonna stop her?_ " asks Face.

" _Murdock, you plant the tracker?"_

The pilot leans casually up against the bar and digs through a pack of Skittles he'd gotten from who even knows where. "Yup. Wasn't hard, she got real close. Was kinda weird."

She looks at him, wondering if her expression betrays just how perplexed she is with that statement. Does he really not know Moreau had been coming on to him? That doesn't even make sense – he might be crazy, and her closeness might have put him off a little, but she was still gorgeous, and he's still a _guy_. It isn't like Moreau had even been all that subtle, not with that cleavage trick she'd pulled.

"She was giving you her _number_ , Howlin' Mad."

The pilot takes the paper from his pocket and inspects it, brow furrowed in confusion. Sure enough, it's her number, written in an elegant scrawl on what is clearly a quality bit of stationery, scented with that awful lavender/orange/evil smell and embossed with the print of a running fox on the back.

" _Did she?"_ Face teases as BA makes disgusted noises in the background.

"So we know where she's holed up?" she asks, trying very hard not to look at the card or think about how much she'd like to rip it to shreds. They probably need it for evidence. Or something.

" _We will once she gets there. You two, go back to the room, we'll go over the plan for tomorrow."_

"Copy that," she replies, and Murdock grunts his own acknowledgement before offering her a handful of candy.

She takes care to pick out the grape ones, partially because they're her favorite and partially because she knows they're _his_ favorite, and grins at the indignant look he gives her. _There's_ her pilot, finally emerging from behind his eerie assassin persona and whatever weird mood had struck him in the hotel room, and when he gallantly offers her his arm, she accepts it with a laugh. The two of them sweep away from the party, oblivious to the bride and groom's look of confusion as to why they were there in the first place.

* * *

Most, if not all, of the members of Red's team suffer from nightmares, a common psychological side effect of their high-risk lifestyle, and they all handle them differently. They don't necessarily happen to every one of them every night, and not generally _all_ night, but they do happen, and she's no exception to this rule.

Red, personally, has been having them so long – consistently since the day her father was killed in action when she was nine – that they're fairly routine, no longer snapping her awake in a cold sweat, but merely leaving her dazed and unsettled, with a pressing need to make sure her situation is the same as when she last left it.

And by "situation" she always means her boys.

Tonight is one of those nights, and she emerges from the mass of blankets to locate her sidearm, tucked near her head as usual, and then across the room to check on Murdock.

They'd played "Rock, Paper, Scissors" over who would get the bed – the winner, of course, being rewarded by not having to sleep on it – and no matter how many rematches Murdock had demanded, she'd won every time.

Hannibal has his chess, Face has his card games, and BA has any and all contact sports, but she has never lost a game of Roshambo in her life, and she couldn't quite manage to contain her cackle of laughter as he'd stared forlornly at the luxurious horror he'd been condemned to sleep on.

There are two loveseats at the other end of the room from the bed, just beside the fully-furnished kitchen and directly in front of the extravagant bathroom – which is complete with a sauna and Jacuzzi tub, to her amazement – but they were too small to stretch out on. She'd solved this problem by relocating the cushions to the floor, and had piled spare blankets and pillows on top to make a somewhat cozy-looking nest. In all honesty the pillows are so nice it ends up being almost as maddeningly comfortable as sleeping on the bed, but this is still preferable so she doesn't complain.

There's an odd light in the room now, coupled with quiet, incomprehensible noises, and it takes her a second to fight off the haze of sleep to understand that the TV in front of the bed is on. Murdock is still awake, and she doubts he's slept at all despite the fact that it's nearly three in the morning, propped up as he is against the pillows with his attention riveted to the screen in front of him. The cartoons he's watching – because he doesn't watch anything else, besides maybe old Westerns – are in French, but he appears to be following along fine and it takes her sleep-addled brain another moment to recall that French is one of his languages.

Catching her sudden movement, he looks over, squinting to see her better, and then smiles, his expression strangely soft in the flickering bluish light. "Heffalumps and woozles botherin' ya again, Lady Red?"

"Nah," she says, her voice hoarse from sleep, "they're too scared of you."

"You're scarier than me," he says, and he's probably right, at least right now, when most of her hair has escaped her braid and is sticking up in about six different directions, and the bags under her eyes are probably especially pronounced.

"That's fair," she concedes, "What are you watching?"

"Old _Babar_ reruns," he says, "you ever see it?"

"Nope," she replies, because she hadn't really watched a whole lot of TV as a kid – hadn't had the time between school and her various lessons, and hadn't cared about it when her father died and her older brother shipped out in the same year, leaving her alone.

She's pretty sure _Babar_ might be about an elephant, though.

He peers closer at her, and she tries not to fidget under his gaze or do anything that could otherwise be considered stupid, like diving under the blankets so he won't get a good look at her dishevelment. He's seen her in worse condition, _way_ worse, if she counts Egypt, but there's something about today, about recently, that's put in her in a weirdly self-conscious mood around him.

"You're really shook up, aren't you?" he says, a note of realization in his voice, and she shakes her head. She's uneasy, but not "shook up", and anyway it's nothing that won't pass in a few moments, nothing she doesn't know how to handle.

"Just weird dreams. Go back to _Babar_." She quirks her mouth at him and lays back down, trying to find a position that doesn't feel like sinking into a cloud and failing miserably. After a few frustrating minutes of this, she hears Murdock shift on his bed, followed by the click of the TV switching off, and she raises her head once more to try to see what he's doing in the sudden blackness.

She can still see his silhouette, framed against the lights of the brilliant city as they peek through the windows at the far end of the room. For a moment, he's breathtaking, his figure and his movements and the way he chases the heaviness from the room by stumbling against the bedframe and landing flat on his face. A laugh bursts out of both of them, and he makes some quip in some accent she can't place, and in that moment, three crucial things are brought to her attention.

The first thing takes her a second to understand because it overwhelms her, startles her so much she almost bolts upright, her heart in her mouth.

 _Crap, I'm in love with him._

It doesn't make sense, it _shouldn't_ , except there's no bargaining with this very distinct feeling that has settled between her ribs.

Oh, this is so, _so_ bad. In fact, on her Top Ten List of Worst Things That Can Possibly Happen, this ranks above getting _shot_.

She supposes it actually _does_ make a little bit of sense, looking back on today and recent weeks and the four years that have passed since Mexico, and when she investigates further she can't remember a time when she _didn't_ feel like this, didn't have this burning _thing_ in her chest, all starting with the first time he'd ever tipped his stupid cap at her.

 _So much for keeping him at arm's length._ The thought is a vaguely hysterical one and she clamps down on it ruthlessly.

The second thing she notices, and too late, is that he's shirtless. This isn't especially unusual, because she's seen all of her men in various states of undress at some point or another. And while Face is basically cut like Adonis and BA is big and blocky, Murdock's always sort of been… just, _really_ nice to look at, from a completely objective viewpoint – slender and defined and naturally tan, and for whatever reason she's always found it difficult not to stare. He's probably also barefoot, clothed only in his favorite loose grey sweatpants she knows for a fact he stole from Face.

The third realization only stuns her because it's tied up with the other two: she's in love with him, he's half-dressed, and now he's headed in her direction. It's a disaster waiting to happen.

"What are you doing?" she asks, hoping she doesn't sound as alarmed as she feels.

"Scooch over."

"…No?" It accidentally comes out like a question and she's really, _really_ glad it's dark so he can't see the dazed expression on her face.

"There are woozles under the bed, and our combined scariness will vanquish them. Scooch." She can hear that ridiculous grin in his voice and feels hot and cold and like… _itchy_ , all at once, and doesn't trust herself to speak again without giving her Very Dangerous Realization away, so she simply scoots over and tries not to think about it.

But this particular thing is too big for even her compartmentalization skills, and this is literally the most inconvenient, inappropriate, _unrealistic_ thing to ever –

Her thoughts are interrupted by his sudden presence under the blankets, still maintaining a respectful amount of distance but close enough to feel his body heat. It's an awkward fit on the small cushions, but after a moment of shifting around, they each manage to achieve a vague level of comfort. "When we get back to base, I'll teach you how to make a _real_ blanket fort. We'll get BA and Face in on it too, and maybe even the Colonel –"

"Murdock," she cuts in, because if he says one more word, she's gonna do something stupid, and not the usual reckless stupid that her job entails but something far worse and harder to fix if and when it inevitably goes south, "sleep now. Blanket fort later."

"Sleep is _boring_." She can more sense his pout than see it, and it makes that tug in her chest grow more annoyingly pronounced than before, which she hadn't actually thought was possible.

"Then you keep watch for heffalumps and _I'll_ sleep. But either way, shut up."

He gives a put-upon sigh. "Sure thing, Lady Red."

It's quiet for a moment, and she can almost manage to situate herself around the too-comfortable cushions and the too-comfortable sensation of sleeping next to the pilot and this too-comfortable feeling in her chest, warm and bright and all but glowing, and in that second, she very nearly drifts off, more relaxed than she's felt in years.

Until, of course, he shifts next to her, brushing his freezing toes against her bare leg, and the feeling of peace is lost to her trying to smother him with a pillow.

(If they do manage to eventually get back to sleep, and then subsequently wake up tangled around each other the next morning, neither of them feels the need to address it.)

* * *

"I still don't like this," Red says, mostly because she's in yet _another_ cocktail dress at yet _another_ swanky gathering of snobby people using an accent she still hasn't mastered, and surprise surprise, she's ignored again.

" _You're starting to sound like Face with all that complaining, kid,"_ murmurs Hannibal, and she can _hear_ him grinning at her discomfort.

" _I resent that,"_ says Face.

"You'd be complaining too if you had to carry out ninety percent of the mission without wearing pants," she mutters.

" _Just stay focused, Red."_ Hannibal cuts in quickly, likely trying to stave off whatever inappropriate comment Face had prepared, _"Murdock's taking care of Moreau – you've got the instructions, just play your part until we figure out where she's keeping the list."_

"I don't like _that_ , either," she grumbles, making her way to her seat as the auction begins. Hannibal's revised plan had involved Murdock calling that number Moreau had given him, and a car had come around to pick him up from their hotel earlier that day. Hopefully, under the guise of wanting to hook up with her – which does not in any way make Red want to claw the other woman's eyes out – he'll be able to locate where she's storing the list and prevent her from selling to anyone else. Red is now only here for appearances, just to buy Murdock time to do his job. She hopes he's up to it, because this is where it's gonna start getting dicey. Face had followed behind him discreetly for backup, but the situation still doesn't sit well with her.

The item she's supposed to be bidding on won't be up for another few minutes, so she takes the time to survey the room. Moreau may not be here, but Beefcake One and Beefcake Two from the reception yesterday are lingering in the back, flanked by a few men she's pretty sure are backup muscle. She wonders if they've been sent to make sure she plays by the rules, or for some more sinister purpose – either way, their presence is setting off serious alarm bells. She shifts in her seat, feeling the comforting weight of her nine millimeter strapped to her thigh under her dress. She's got a knife too, in the handbag next to her, but she hopes it's not going to be necessary to use either one of them.

Venezuela taught her several things – to hate fighting in a dress was one of them.

After several more minutes, the item she's been waiting for is brought to the stand, some kind of antique sugar bowl with a leaping fox printed on the side – a fox that looks oddly similar to the one on the back of the card Moreau had given Murdock.

It's not quite a second warning bell, but something about it unsettles her, and she bids on it quickly, hoping to get this whole mission done with as soon as possible.

There are a few other bidders, but none who seem terribly interested in it for what it might hold inside, and after a moment the auctioneer declares the item is hers. It's brought to her in a small wooden box, and she nods her head in thanks before accepting it and slipping an envelope full of (marked) cash to the attendant in the same smooth movement.

And just like that, it's done, and she's making her quiet way out of her seat and out of the room, before taking a right towards the restroom. Mercifully, all the stalls are empty, and she locks the door behind her to make sure she isn't disturbed.

"Hannibal, I've got it," she murmurs as she lifts the lid of the box, "I got the useless copy we didn't need, how's Murdock?"

" _He's still looking. Apparently Moreau has other things on her mind than a tour of her hotel room,"_ Hannibal responds wryly, and she tries not to do something stupid, like punch the mirror.

Instead, she focuses on the sugar bowl. It might be an antique, but it's also ugly as sin, and she lifts the porcelain lid to retrieve the thumb drive tucked inside. Removing a small tablet from her handbag, she hooks the drive up and waits for the information to appear on the screen.

And something _does_ appear on the screen, and it _is_ a list of names, but only five.

One by one, pictures of herself and each of her team members, taken directly from their military files, flash before her eyes, along with names and birthdates and mission details and even kill counts, all of it highly classified. At the end of the slideshow, a fox darts across the screen, a mouse trapped inside its jaws, and then it all goes dark.

In an instant she's running for the door, jaw set, heart pounding. "Hannibal, we're blown. Moreau knows who we are, Murdock walked right into –"

She's cut off by the sight of the Beef Twins right outside the bathroom door, looking even more menacing than usual.

Fortunately, she can do "menacing" with the best of them.

She reacts with a speed only those accustomed to being arbitrarily attacked can possess, slamming the door shut abruptly as one of them lunges for her. His head collides with the wood with a sickening _thunk_ , and she flings the door wide open again, throwing her weight into the man's solar plexus and sending him stumbling back into his companion.

Mercifully, she's in flats, so she doesn't have to devote as much attention to her balance – which turns out to be a good thing, because she's pretty sure the slightest drop in focus this time around will kill her. These guys are good, _scary_ good, moving with a deceptive speed despite their bulk, and while she's still quicker, their hits count for more. This is proven the first time one of them lands a shot to her ribcage and the distinctive crack of bones breaking echoes through the corridor.

She stumbles back, winded and gasping as the edges of her vision go white with pain. She'd gotten sloppy, careless in her worry for Murdock, and to make matters worse, there are more guys coming straight at them from the end of the hall, and they're rather decidedly _not_ friendlies. It's all she can do to dance around her current opponents as she tries to fumble for her gun, but it's hard to do that _and_ block a haymaker _and_ drop into a reverse ankle-sweep _and_ roll away from a kick aimed at her head.

If she survives this, she's making a private pact to never ever wear a dress again.

There's shouting from the end of the corridor, followed by something like a roar, and suddenly Hannibal and BA are there, taking down the advancing thugs and distracting her own opponents, even if it's only for a second.

It's all she needs. Moving with desperate speed, she leaps for the wall, pushing off with her feet to launch herself into the air. The blow she aims at the face of Beefcake One snaps his head to the side and jars her arm to the shoulder, but fells him instantly. His partner comes at her with renewed purpose, moving to draw a weapon from within his jacket, but she's already won, she can feel the impending victory in her bones. His arm extends, light glinting off the steel of the revolver in his hand, and she grabs and twists and flips in a simple, fluid movement she could've pulled off drunk and blindfolded – and she knows that because she's done it before. Twice.

One jerk of his arm and a kick to the temple later, and he's immobilized. There's no time to revel, however, because Face isn't answering her calls on the comms and only Hannibal has a line to Murdock, and he's still tied up fighting alongside BA at the other end of the corridor. She moves to help, because her CO is always priority, always, but his barked command stops her in her tracks.

"Red, he's in the Le Meurice Hotel, Room Two-Forty-Four, go!"

She doesn't need to be told twice. Spinning on her heel, she launches herself over the prone bodies of her former opponents and sprints full-tilt out of the building, desperation singing through her blood. The hotel is only two blocks away, she can be there in under ninety seconds if she flies.

And she does, she _must_ , because her feet hardly seem to touch the ground. She's only vaguely aware of the looks she's getting as she plows through tourists and commuters alike, but it doesn't matter, none of it does because she's so close but not close enough.

Finally, _finally_ the hotel looms into view in front of her, and a fresh burst of speed puts her through the front doors and past the startled concierge in a matter of moments. She takes the lobby stairs three at a time, stopping only once on the second-floor landing to fumble for the gun on her thigh.

 _Two-forty-four, two-forty-four, two-forty-four, where is it?_

She turns a corner sharply and identifies the correct door without having to look at the room number – it's the only one ajar, and there's a dining cart full of what looks like caviar and sinfully expensive champagne resting just outside.

Treading soundlessly on the lush carpet, she advances at a much steadier pace than before, trying to regulate her breathing. Egypt had screwed her over physically in more ways than one, her lung capacity in particular, and her broken ribs aren't helping matters.

She's reached the door now, and it eases open without so much as a squeak, revealing a parlor decorated with furniture even more lavish and extravagant than her own room. There's a balcony at the far end, and she's unsurprised that she can see the Eiffel Tower from here, too.

A second glance reveals Face to be lying across one of the couches, his undercover bellhop uniform wrinkled and bloodstained. His eyes are closed, and for an awful instant she can't tell if he's breathing. Keeping her pistol leveled towards the French doors leading to the rest of the suite, she reaches down with her free hand over the back of the couch to feel for his pulse. She's nearly sick with relief when she locates it, somewhat weaker than she'd like but still there with no signs of stopping. She'll come back to investigate his injuries further after she's found Murdock.

"You've got nowhere to go and you know it, Moreau," she calls out with a snarl, "you can either leave here in cuffs or a body bag, and I suggest you make your choice before I make it for you."

A beat of silence, and then, "In here, Lieutenant."

The conwoman's voice, high and clear as a bell, comes from beyond the French doors, and with a bracing inhale Red moves in that direction. These too, open soundlessly, and then she's in a quaint breakfast nook with a kitchenette to her right. There are lovely bay windows here, and framed within them is Moreau herself, standing next to Murdock, who is slumped back in a chair at the head of the table. He isn't restrained, but he's clearly unable to move all the same, and the sight terrifies her beyond words. His lovely eyes are half-open and glassy, and there's an alarming lack of color in his cheeks. He's sweating and breathing heavily, and groans at the sight of her, but doesn't react further.

 _Drugged_ , is her first thought, discarded and replaced swiftly by _poisoned_ , and then her stomach drops as Moreau flips a syringe of clear liquid between her fingers with too much practiced malice for it to be anything else.

"The cure for whatever you gave him," Red bites out through gritted teeth, " _now_."

Moreau's eyes light up in thrilled surprise. "You _are_ quick, Lieutenant. Pity you were slower on the uptake when I planted the listening device on your lover's jacket. Imagine my surprise when I overheard that dear Templeton and his friends were stupid enough to try to con _me_."

Red could kick herself for the slip – Moreau really had been masterful, using her jealousy to distract her. "Give me the antidote, Moreau. I won't ask again."

The woman only smiles. "I'll be happy tell you where it is, after I've safely walked out the door."

"With the list?"

"Naturally."

"Not a chance."

"Your precious Captain doesn't have time for your posturing, Lieutenant Wayne." It's Moreau's turn to snarl now. "Let me pass, or watch your lover die."

Well, Red mentally concedes, he really _doesn't_ have time, but she can't let her walk out with that intel, either. She knows, cognitively, that in situations like this she's expected to do what's best for the majority, expected to weigh Murdock's life against the lives of hundreds, if not thousands of others, and find him wanting.

She also knows his grin, and the way he smells and sings and pilots a chopper and what _he'd_ choose in this situation, and makes her decision with a very deliberate _screw that_.

Maybe Face could have negotiated a way to maneuver both scenarios in his favor. Hannibal definitely could have, _and_ he'd have walked away with Moreau trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, packaged nicely for the proper authorities to dispose of.

Red isn't them, and she doesn't have that skill set, but what she does have is a gun, and a highly upsetting affection for her pilot, and that will have to be enough.

She levels her weapon, takes a gamble, and fires.

Moreau gives a startled cry as the bullet slams into her right shoulder and she stumbles back into the window, yanking the curtains down around her rather dramatically when she falls. The woman looks up at her from the floor, indignant and incredulous and not at all unlike a child on the verge of a tantrum. "You _shot_ me!"

"And I'll do it again if you don't tell me how to help Captain Murdock. That's just a flesh wound. Next time I'll hit something more vital." Later, Red will be very proud of the control in her voice, but right now she's too busy channeling Hannibal's icy strength, BA's towering intimidation, and Face's poker face to notice.

Moreau opens and closes her mouth several times like a suffocating fish, and then gives a defeated sigh, closes her eyes, and gestures to the clutch resting on the barstool in the kitchenette. "The antidote is in there."

She'd been planning to walk out with it. Red could shoot her again for that alone, but decides against it in favor of saving her friend, who is looking worse and worse by the second. She all but flies across the room, fumbling through the clutch and breathing a sigh of relief when her hand closes around another syringe. She's no doctor, but she's been trained in basic field medicine (because _someone_ on the team has to be, with how frequently they end up in situations like this) and administering the shot is easy as breathing. Easier, probably, given how hard she's finding that at the moment.

She kneels beside him as the antidote enters his system, keeping one eye on Moreau the entire time. It's obvious the woman had planned to deal with someone like Hannibal, someone she could barter with and verbally back into a corner, or at the very least stall until she figured out a way to get what she wanted. What she hadn't counted on was that Red spends nearly all of her time with people who have that ability, and sometimes the only way to keep from falling under their spell is to do something so drastic and unexpected, their carefully-laid plans short-circuit and they crack under the strain.

That method doesn't actually work on Hannibal, but then, Moreau isn't anywhere close to being his intellectual equal. So she'd gambled. And won, apparently, judging by the way Murdock's eyes are clearing and color is returning to his face.

His gaze seems to focus, and then, after shifting around the room, comes to rest on her. "Hey, Red," he murmurs, and the relief that washes over her nearly makes her choke. Instead, she settles for throwing her arms around him in what she knows is an uncharacteristic show of affection, reveling in the fact that he's alive and is going to stay that way. It's probably her imagination that his hands come to rest on her hips, holding her there.

"Always good to see you, Howlin' Mad."

There's an urge building within her, almost impossible to resist given how close he is and how relieved she is and how alive they both are, and for a moment, she entertains giving into it, entertains crossing the line he almost crossed yesterday when he appeared to be playacting but may not have been.

This isn't the time or place, however, and there may never be one, so she does the smart thing and withdraws – but only after she's pressed her mouth to his throat, just over his pulse, so quick and light she's not sure he felt it and prays that he doesn't.

And then she's Lieutenant Wayne again, and Hannibal and BA are bursting through the French doors, and Moreau reluctantly directs them to the heavily-encrypted computer where she's kept the stolen list. Another significant gesture from Red's weapon has her tripping over herself to give them the access codes.

Hannibal doesn't ask about the bullet in Moreau's shoulder – he probably doesn't have to – and instead radios for the usual backup and medical units. The conwoman had, as it turned out, hit Face over the head with a wooden bookend when he'd come up to keep an eye on Murdock under the guise of bringing room service – he has a mild concussion and a killer headache, but is otherwise fine. Red's already planning on teasing him about this for _months_.

She helps Murdock move to one of the couches as they wait, and then lingers near him, leaning up against the back of the sofa and staring out the balcony windows at the lovely city before her.

"Alright, Lieutenant?"

She turns to see Hannibal moving towards her, kind blue eyes habitually assessing her for injury. Her broken ribs are on fire now that the adrenaline has drained out of her body, but it's nothing she hasn't felt multiple times before and she tells him so.

Mostly, she's tired, and she tells him that too, and smiles a bit when he laughs. "You did well, kid. I know you're not a fan of these kinds of assignments."

She shrugs, then curses when the movement pulls on her torso. How she hadn't noticed the pain before now is a mystery to her. "A job's a job, Bossman." She doesn't say the other thing she's thinking, that there's nothing she wouldn't do if he asked, no assignment she wouldn't take, no mission she wouldn't do her best to carry out.

"You and the Captain work well together." It might be just a simple statement of fact, but this is Hannibal so it's more likely that he's fishing. For what, exactly, she isn't sure.

"We all work well with each other. They don't call us the A-Team for nothing." It's not technically a deflection if there isn't really a question to avoid, but the look he's giving her through his cigar smoke makes her feel like she has, anyway.

To her surprise, however, he drops the subject, instead placing a bracing hand on her shoulder before moving away to assess the rest of his team. But she doesn't miss the parting look he gives her, one that is equal parts amusement and knowing.

It's a little annoying, sometimes, having a boss that manages to be borderline omniscient. She looks down at Murdock, who's drowsily murmuring to himself with his cap pulled over his eyes in an unwitting mimicry of his position on the bed the day before, and has to clench her hands into fists to keep from reaching down and touching him.

In that moment, in a conwoman's hotel room in the middle of Paris with what feels like at least three broken ribs, she makes a decision.

Whatever she feels for him, whatever she wants with him, can never happen, can never be acted on. What she _already_ has with him, with her team, is beautiful and insane and _perfect_ , and she can't risk jeopardizing everything just for a stupid ( _all_ - _consuming_ ) ridiculous ( _wonderful_ ) inappropriate ( _thrilling_ ) feeling.

She's just going to have to get over it, that's all. It'll be a piece of cake.

Below her, Murdock shifts, stretching out a hand and inadvertently swiping his fingertips across her elbow, sending bolts of electricity dancing across her skin. She buries her face in her hands with a quiet groan.

Yeah, she's doomed.

 **A/N: Super-long chapter for a super-long wait! Cut me a little slack – I must have rewritten this thirteen different times. Hope you enjoyed! The next chapter puts us back in the movie, ya'll, I hope you're as excited as I am!**

 **I only own Red Wayne, everything else belongs to the creators of** _ **The A-Team**_ **.**

 **Special thanks to the lovely and flawless** Just Another Word Shaker **, who happily delved into a fandom she knew nothing about to help make this suck less. You rock, girl!**

 **Special thanks also to** AFAN, Demon of Serenity, HeavensWeatherHellsCompany, Prinzessin Mia, and JennAizawa **for reviewing! Thanks also to everyone who fav'd or alerted!**

 **Please review and let me know what you think, I'd love to hear your feedback!**

 **Sincerely,  
Starcrier. **


	5. Cheek

_Marching On_

 _(Or, Five Kisses That Don't Count and One That Definitely Does)_

 **Cheek**

Their luck has to run out sometime.

Looking back, Red will almost want to laugh at how close they came to escaping with their lives intact. Her team had been due to ship out of Iraq with the remainder of the troops in a matter of days – they'd been stationed here for _months_ now and they've survived one close call after another, what difference could a week possibly make compared to eight _years_?

As it turns out, it makes _all_ the difference, but they won't realize that until it's already too late.

They are supposed to be done. Her team had returned from what was supposed to be their final mission early this morning, and now they're resting, tending to their wounds and celebrating their impending leave.

Face has broken out his prized kiddie pool, something he won a while back in a bet, and is soaking up the late afternoon sunshine on skin that simply _refuses_ to burn. She finds this personally offensive, seeing as how she's been severely sunburned no fewer than eighteen times since they've been here. She'd discovered rather quickly that sunscreen is, in fact, ineffectual at protecting her skin in the desert, and wearing clothing that covered more of her body had resulted in several cases of heat exhaustion, and on one terrifying occasion, a stroke.

It had gotten so out of hand that one night Hannibal had simply shown up at the door of the women's barracks and shoved a massive box into her hands with a barked order of, "Use it, Lieutenant."

Inside had been the most obnoxiously-large woven sunhat she'd ever seen, and she hadn't known whether to laugh or cry in relief. She can't wear it on missions, obviously, but she's never seen without it on the base. Her skin is still essentially one massive freckle, but the burning has been reduced greatly.

She'll take looking like a walking UFO over looking like a lobster any day of the week, and anyway most of the guys here are too intimidated by her to say anything less than complimentary about it.

"A little late in the day for the satellite dish, isn't it?" Except for her own team members, of course, who are quite content to rib her about it as frequently as possible.

She glowers at Face and sniffs primly, before settling herself in the chair next to his and propping her boots up on his cooler. "I can get a burn from a full moon, Face; I'm taking no chances."

"I think you're displaying impeccable fashion sense as always, Lady Red," calls Murdock from behind her, where he's firing up his grill for celebratory steaks. The pilot actually likes her hat so much he's been known to swipe it when she isn't looking and wear it around himself.

" _Thank_ you, Captain." She turns and winks at him over the rim of her sunglasses.

"Ain't smart, takin' fashion advice from a crazy man," BA points out, looking up from tinkering with one of his bikes, and she makes a face at him. He's probably right, though – Murdock's sense of style is… _questionable_ , at best. She very deliberately does not stare at his "Kiss the Cook" apron and leans back in her seat, closing her eyes in an attempt to relax.

It's been four long, peril-filled years since Paris, since her Very Upsetting Realization, and thus far her plan to simply get over it ( _him_ ) has failed. Miserably. If anything, she's more in love with him now than she's ever been, and it's becoming increasingly distracting.

She's never acted on it, and he hasn't either, but why would he? He's apparently the saner of the two of them when it comes to things like falling in love with teammates, and the irony of that isn't lost on her, thanks very much. So she does the only thing she can do and watches, quietly and from a careful distance, and protects him – _them_ – as she always has, and it's enough.

Really.

Distantly, there is the sound of a chopper touching down, and soldiers scrambling to intercept it. This isn't unusual given how chaotic the withdrawal from this godforsaken desert has been, so she doesn't even open her eyes.

"Face, you want it napalmed or nuked?" calls Murdock from behind them, and she hears her friend pop open another beer.

"Nuke it," he drawls, and she grimaces when BA echoes the order. For her boys, the scale for cooking meat ranges only from "charred" to "total damnation".

"Burn the whole place down, buddy."

"That's revolting," she murmurs over the sudden _fwoosh_ of the grill erupting in flames behind her – _ah, so the gunpowder dry-rub's on the menu tonight._

"Don't say it, Red, don't even think about –" Murdock tries, but she cuts him off with a grin.

"I want mine still mooing. Red as my hair, if you please." Her team makes their habitual noises of disgust, and her smile only grows wider. "You guys are all pansies."

"They call ya Red cuz you're a vampire, be honest," Murdock says, and Face laughs beside her.

"Look, that's why she burns so easy! Her kind can't be out in daylight."

"Murdock, you got any garlic? I hear they don't like that stuff."

"I think I got some around here, BA…"

"Hilarious," she says dryly, "If you morons wanna eat shoe leather, be my guest. Some of us like flavor, and _that's_ in the blood."

"Pretty sure that's a quote straight out of _Dracula_."

"It's actually not, but your ignorance is understandable since you'd have to put down _Playboy_ to check."

Face's no-doubt snide retort is cut off by Murdock – which is probably a good thing, since the two of them can and will go back and forth in a similar manner for hours if they get going. It drives Hannibal nuts, especially when it happens while they're on assignment. "You guys want secret sauce?"

"No no no, none of that antifreeze."

"Hannibal was very clear about using alternative marinades on the base, man," she chimes in, and BA laughs behind them.

"You're crazy. Everybody knows."

"Nobody does an antifreeze marinade like you can, Murdock," continues Face, "but I got a little Bell's palsy last time I ate that."

"You aren't the only one," she mutters, "at least he warned us this time."

"It's only a _partial_ paralysis." He almost sounds like he's pouting, which will garner sympathy from exactly no one here.

"Yeah, but I don't wanna be in the field partially paralyzed, bud."

A sudden shadow falls over her, detectable even behind her closed eyelids, but she can only be bothered to investigate the source of the disturbance at Murdock's quiet, wary warning of, "Visitors…"

She opens one eye lazily, and upon seeing just who it is that's so graciously blocking her light, she immediately sits forward, hackles rising. Beside her, Face has removed his glasses, and is surveying their guest with an unreadable expression.

In fact, his lack of reaction is so conspicuous it's practically a reaction of its own, and she feels both a sudden rush of concern for him and a flare of rage towards the woman he's looking at.

Red supposes the animosity she shares with Charissa Sosa would be surprising to some, given their many similarities; after all, they're both military, both used to having to fight and claw for respect, and both have an astounding lack of tolerance for idiocy. However, they're also both alpha females – and there's a reason Red has never had close friends that weren't guys.

But they differ fiercely in one crucial aspect: Sosa is intensely ambitious, while Red is decidedly not. And while Red understands the desire to ascend the ranks and even encourages it, especially in her fellow female officers, Sosa's methods for doing so are a little more cold-blooded than she's comfortable with.

They had sized each other up within seconds of meeting, with Sosa searching for a threat to her relationship with Face, and Red for a threat to Face himself. The other woman never found what she'd been looking for, but Red had, and she'd been wary of the woman until the very end. And she'd been right to be, since Sosa had, in a bizarre plot twist, actually managed to break _Face's_ heart.

He'd never said as much, of course, because he's a guy and an extraordinarily thick-headed one, but she knows him better than anybody else, and knows how he looks when he's hurting.

It's remarkably similar to how he looks now, actually.

Sosa gives a saccharine smile and tilts her head, and Red wants to slug her. "Yeah," says the woman, basking in his shock, and Face starts to laugh.

"Wow, I'm a little taken aback, I'm not gonna lie."

"Lieutenant," she greets coolly, and he frowns.

"I'm sorry, am I supposed to call you 'Lieutenant' back?"

"No, you're supposed to call me Captain," the woman replies, and Red almost chokes. Of course, _of course_ , she'd be suddenly outranked by the single most irritating woman she's ever met. Because sure.

Red wants to continue to listen and provide support for Face, she really does, except that if she can't hit this woman she doesn't want to hear her talk because she might end up doing it anyway, and being dishonorably discharged isn't currently on her to-do list for the evening.

So instead she stands, and Sosa seems to notice her for the first time, ridiculous hat and all. And because she's a good soldier and her daddy would turn over in his grave if she didn't do it, Red salutes without an ounce of insincerity, and then takes her leave of the situation before the other woman can say a word.

The two soldiers who flank Sosa – Ravech and Gammons, judging by the tags on their fatigues – are unfamiliar to her, but the one labelled "Ravech" gives her the same dopey, star-struck smile she's seen women aim at Face dozens of times. She only rolls her eyes at him and moves towards BA, who is currently being tormented by Murdock and one of his many hand puppets. This one looks like Percy the Pig, arguably the one BA hates the most.

 _Better intervene before Howlin' Mad ends up on his own grill._

Sure enough, she arrives just in time to hear BA threaten to break every bone in his hand. "Behave, or I'll ground you both," she cuts in swiftly, and Murdock pouts at her again when she confiscates the puppet.

"You ain't my mama, woman," BA grumbles, but it doesn't escape her notice that the threats of bodily violence stop immediately.

"You know where Hannibal went?" she asks, leaning against his bike and watching as Sosa and Face's conversation seems to grow more heated, judging by the set of the other woman's jaw and the way she's leaned forward in Red's vacated seat, appearing, for all intents and purposes, ready to pounce.

"I think he was on his way to the General's tent," Murdock supplies helpfully, and she nods at him in thanks.

"Whatcha need the Colonel for?" asks BA, and she frowns, giving a significant nod to where Sosa and her lackeys are.

"If the DOD's sniffing around the team, he needs to know."

BA follows her gaze and then straightens, nodding. "I'll come with ya. Wanted to show the Colonel pictures of my new van anyway."

"Ooh, is she finally ready?"

He hands her a stack of pictures as they walk, and she fawns and makes appreciative noises in all the right places, despite having little to no technical understanding of cars beyond how to hotwire and/or wreck them. His new van appears to be an exact model of the one that they'd used to rescue Face in Mexico, which had, perhaps inevitably, been totaled by Murdock on their wild helicopter escape from the hospital. She's always found it to be a bit bulky and garish, but BA takes any insult to his van very, very personally, so she doesn't rib him about it overmuch.

"You gonna go see your brother when we get back?" BA asks as they move towards the center of the base where General Morrison's tent is located. The question surprises her for a few reasons, mostly because they don't really tend to bring up the subject of family all that much, but also because no, she _really_ hadn't been.

A massive supply truck rumbles by, honking to clear the path as it throws up a cloud of dust and exhaust, and she uses the interruption to buy herself time to think of a response. "I dunno," she finally replies once the air clears and they start moving again, "I was kind of thinking I'd just stick around LA, you know? Have a staycation, or whatever. What about you? Are you gonna go see your mom?"

It works – BA's whole face lights up as he lists the plans he's got for when he goes back home to Chicago, and the subject of her family life is mercifully forgotten.

It's a tricky thing, her relationship with her brother. Reagan is her only living relative, and, wheelchair-bound and missing both of his legs below the knees, he lives alone in their childhood home in Wyoming. Like most everyone else in their family, he'd been in the military, but unlike everyone else, he'd not only survived his tours, he'd come home with a Purple Heart and a powerful case of PTSD. He is crippled by his paranoia and isolated by his injuries, and, while she knows he loves her, she's also very aware of his resentment of her, which can make going home for leave… _awkward_ , to say the least.

She's never been sure, what, exactly, he resents her for. It's possibly because of her continued position in the military while he can no longer serve, or for the way their father had doted on her when he was alive, or possibly because she's on the best commando team in any of the branches, but the feeling isn't mutual and she has always done whatever she can to make sure he knows it. He's the only family she's got left, after all.

Her last visit had ended in a shouting match, mostly about how Reagan wanted her to leave the military, settle down and do something with her life that didn't involve risking it at every turn, and she hadn't exactly responded well. Reagan is turning into a bitter, hateful old man, and while he claims he doesn't want her to suffer the same fate he did for an institution that would only turn its back on her in the end, he just doesn't _get_ it.

She'll suffer loss of limb and more for her boys, for her country. What right does she have to let them stay and risk their lives and not do the same? What right does she have to claim peace and security while the men she'd fought to protect for the better part of a decade stay and make war?

Besides, she's a Wayne, and Waynes don't just _leave_ the military.

Hannibal is still in Morrison's tent when they come upon it – Red can smell his favorite brand of cigar, pungent and heavy and faintly sweet, from out here. She and BA lean against a nearby stack of crates and wait for him to emerge, and their conversation gives way to a companionable silence. She's always had an easygoing relationship with BA – the larger man is something of an introvert and she's always found his presence to be a steady, refreshing one when she doesn't want to talk but doesn't want to be alone with her thoughts, either. The pair of them have spent hours in his workshop while she cleans weapons or reads and he tinkers with his project of the week.

"Your brother's a good man, Red," he murmurs suddenly, as though he knows the bleak direction her thoughts have taken, "Jus' got a bad break, ya know? Should go see him."

"Yeah," she says, and can't quite meet his eyes, because what happens when _she_ gets a bad break? Will she turn out like him? Lonely and resentful and broken down by something that used to mean everything to her? She's got shades of that in her, she knows, shades of darkness and bitterness and _hate_ , but when Hannibal had found her he'd given her direction, taught her to master herself and direct her darker emotions towards protecting her teammates.

She doesn't want to think about the kind of person she'd be without him, without _them_.

When Hannibal finally emerges from the tent, he's got a familiar glint in his eye, and she sighs as she rises to greet him. _Looks like we'll be staying a little longer, then._

He gives a noncommittal answer when BA asks him how his conversation had gone, and instead directs his attention to fawning, much the way she had, over the corporal's pictures of his new van. This only confirms her suspicion they'd taken a new assignment – the fact that he's not willing to say much about it means he's probably still running simulations in his head, facts and figures and battle strategies that won't be voiced aloud until every last detail has been smoothed out. That particular trait of his is why she's never been suckered into playing chess with him.

"Listen guys," Hannibal says, "we're extending our stay a little bit. We're going back into Baghdad."

Red inhales sharply and promptly chokes on the dust kicked up by another passing truck. That's an _extremely_ risky plan, even for Hannibal. The city has descended into complete anarchy in the days since the withdrawal, and US or US-friendly personnel in particular are now walking targets.

"I thought we were ordered to stay out of Baghdad," BA beats her to the statement, but before Hannibal can reply he's interrupted.

"Smith," says the newcomer, and Red groans audibly. _What's this jackass doing here?_

They had encountered the independently-contracted mercenary team known as Black Forest – and subsequently the repulsive Brock Pike – for the first time back in LA six years ago. Red's impression of Pike had been one of immediate dislike, particularly after he'd given her a very deliberate once-over and wolf-whistled the moment they'd first met.

He hadn't actually been coming on to her and she'd known it immediately – his actual intentions were much worse, an attempt to demean her, to diminish her presence as merely ornamental, and she'd almost crossed the room and knocked his teeth down his throat.

Her boys had bristled immediately, but she'd taken the initiative by very gracefully flipping him off. Pike had merely grinned in response, and they'd been bitter enemies from then on.

He goes out of his way to be openly combative with Hannibal, dismissive of BA and Face and outright vile to Murdock, to say nothing of the way he treats _her_. He either makes sexist comments the entire time they're in the same room or blatantly disregards her, and she's had to talk her boys down more than once from breaking his limbs in her defense.

If Sosa is the most irritating woman Red has ever met – and she's known her share – then Pike is _easily_ the most irritating man.

"Pike," Hannibal greets coolly, and she comes to stand on his right side, presenting a united front against this idiot and his pet thugs that follow him everywhere.

"I understand you and your grunts are now stealin' my gigs. I don't like that," Pike begins without preamble, jaw working obnoxiously over a stick of gum.

 _Ah, so Baghdad was supposed to be a Black Forest mission._ Suddenly, she's one-hundred percent in favor of taking the assignment. They can raid Hussein's underwear drawer for all she cares – so long as they're stealing the mission from under Pike.

"I figured you Black Forest guys would be busy installing a dictatorship or overthrowing a democracy somewhere." Hannibal is, as ever, unfazed by the other man's posturing.

Pike looks back to his cronies with a snide laugh. "Nah, it's still the weekend yet. That's nine-to-five stuff, Pops." His gaze travels to her, and she can feel it slide over her body even behind his sunglasses. It makes her skin crawl, but she'd eat glass before she'd let him know that.

"Hey, Princess. Nice hat you got there."

On the other side of Hannibal, BA growls, but she only laughs and adjusts the brim. "Pike, I could kick your butt in this hat, and we both know it."

Hannibal turns to her, clearly amused. "Look at these clowns, Red. They're not soldiers. They're assassins in polo shirts."

BA laughs, and she lowers her sunglasses to give Pike a deliberate, mocking once-over, as he is so fond of doing to her. " _Cheap_ polo shirts," she agrees, "and seriously, you guys need to cool it with the Axe body spray."

Pike's grin never falters, but his response is tight. "We'll make in a week what you guys make in a year."

Red scoffs, disgusted. _You don't join the Army if you care about money, moron._

"Cash don't buy guts, kid," Hannibal says, steely gaze fixed on Pike as he takes a long drag off his cigar, and then smirks, "or brains. And you're short on both."

He then steps close to Pike, so close he manages to breathe smoke in the younger man's face. "This is Morrison's base. Bug outta my op." And then he simply moves on without another word, his point made crystal clear, and Pike's lackeys clear a path for him instantly. She thinks, absently, that she'd like to achieve that level of intimidation someday.

Red moves to follow, but Pike steps into her path so quickly she has to recoil to avoid touching him and subsequently contracting a disease. "Where you goin', honey?"

Beside her, BA growls again and steps forward to physically intervene, but she waves him off. She's not gonna let these idiots bait them into a fight – Hannibal had been very clear that there were to be _no_ stockade visits on Morrison's base.

Instead she smiles. "To do your job for you. I'll bring you guys back a souvenir from Baghdad." She cocks her head and shifts her gaze to his team. "Maybe some of those shirts that say, 'I'm with stupid', but in Arabic?"

Pike's infuriating smile never leaves his face, to her annoyance, but he does lean in so close she can smell his breath, disgusting even with the aid of his mint gum. "That's real cute, Princess. You know, one of these days you and me are gonna go round and round, teach you some manners."

She leans in too and smiles just as big as he does, because she's spent her entire life around alpha males and they've long since lost their novelty. "Nah. I don't fight guys like you, you're all too pathetic. Wouldn't be fair." Then she pushes past him, deliberately slamming her shoulder into his.

"And _don't_ call me princess."

She hears Pike hiss something at BA too, something asinine about the color of his shirt and possibly the abbreviation of his name as well, and then they're both finally clear of the gauntlet of stupidity. _And_ without a single punch thrown – she marks it down as a victory despite the trembling in her hands, which have been clenched into fists in their eagerness to make forceful contact with Pike's face.

"Screw that guy," she murmurs, adjusting her hat again to settle the twitchiness in her arms, and BA gives an enthusiastic grunt of agreement as they head off towards Hannibal's command tent.

And, apparently, Baghdad.

* * *

They're going after stolen engraving plates. Guarded by former Iraqi Special Forces. In Baghdad. Where Sosa has, according to Face, threatened to court martial them if they go. Because why wouldn't they, really?

In spite of this, her boys are excited about Hannibal's plan – which, as usual, is clear-cut in theory but will inevitably get messy in practice – and she is too, particularly since it will involve killing terrorists and Face having to crawl through a sewer.

The fact that they get to vandalize Black Forest property in the process is just icing on the cake.

They wait until nightfall to get what they need, she and BA and Murdock creeping out under the cover of darkness to the lot where the mercenary's cars are kept, each with their own objectives. BA swipes a car door, Murdock removes two batteries – claiming they may need a backup, but he doesn't like Black Forest any more than she does so it's likely he's just being petty, which she can definitely get behind – and Red herself works on removing the airbags. The boys keep watch as she moves from car to car, jimmying the doors in record time and prying the bags loose with her Bowie knife even faster.

And if she happens to slash a few tires for good measure, well. That's beside the point.

Red's almost finished with retrieving the last bag they'll need when a sharp whistle from her left signals the arrival of Pike and his circus troupe of morons. She curses when her knife slips in her surprise and slices across the back of her hand, leaving a seriously bloody gash in its wake.

Still, there's no time to do anything about it, so she simply grabs the duffel she's been using to stash her stolen items and darts off, Murdock close behind and giggling. BA had split in the other direction as his door is bulkier, and she prays he'll figure out a way to maneuver with it as exclamations of outrage split the air behind them – the heavily-armed bachelor party has clearly discovered their vandalism.

And apparently they're giving chase, Pike's annoyed snarl distinctive amid the voices. She and Murdock weave their way around the tents, keeping low and shushing each other when their laughter gets loud enough to risk their pursuers hearing.

She curses, breathless with adrenaline and mirth as she realizes they've hit the wall of the compound, and that they're in danger of being illuminated by the ever-sweeping searchlights that are about to swing back in this direction.

"Red, this way!" Murdock hisses, nudging her with one of his batteries towards a darkened tent to their right, and she enters it immediately, unsurprised to realize it's a supply tent, nearly emptied of his contents from the withdrawal, but not quite. They quickly take cover behind a large stack of crates, taking a moment to set their load down and let the Black Forest goons pass. She still can't manage to stifle her laughter, so Murdock does it for her, placing a warm hand over her mouth and grinning, his teeth gleaming in the near-black.

She fights a childish urge to lick his hand to get him to pull it away – and then considers doing it for other reasons before managing to get ahold of herself, because _down girl, we talked about this._

"Serves 'em right," Murdock whispers, low and close, "Heard about what happened with you and Bosco and the Colonel today."

She wrinkles her nose and moves his hand. "They'll have their day."

"Looks like they're having it now," he replies, gesturing to the batteries at his feet, and then falls quiet again as a silhouette passes by outside. In the weak light, she can barely make out the way Murdock's eyes track the shadow until it's completely gone, and then a thoughtful look passes over his face.

"Listen, Lady Red, I was wondering…"

She cocks her head curiously as he trails off, clearly unsure of something. "Wondering what, Howlin' Mad?"

"Well, I was… it's just… I just wanted to know…" He's blustering, which means whatever he's about to ask is sincere, and while she's normally really good at reading between the lines with him, she's got no idea what's going on right now. Upon further inspection, he actually looks… kind of _scared_ , and it kicks her Mama Bear instincts into high gear.

So she reaches out, grabs the hand that had previously covered her mouth and grips it tight, smiling in an attempt to relax him. She's guided him through panic attacks in a similar manner before – she's usually the only one who can. "What is it?" she asks, still very confused as to what's suddenly gotten him so worked up.

" _Areyougoinganywhereonleave?_ " It comes out of him in a rush, a full sentence combined into one, breathless word, and it takes her a second to decipher it.

She frowns, more confused than ever. Why on earth would that question have given him so much trouble? The only one whose plans they never ask about are Hannibal's, because the majority of his private life is just that, and he has always given pointedly vague answers in reply to all personal questions.

But she's an open book and her boys know that, so his hesitance is somewhat confounding. "Well, I had planned to stick around LA for the duration, but BA got me thinking I might need to go see my brother."

Murdock, she knows, does nothing, goes nowhere, sees no one. Ever. And suddenly it comes to her – he doesn't want to be alone on leave this go around. Being stationed the desert for this long has taken a lot out of all of them, she knows, and has affected them all in different ways. She has consistently begun to resemble an angry, freckled tomato, Face is irritable and antsy with the lack of female company, and Murdock is developing separation anxiety. That's fine, and it's nothing new on Murdock's end, even if it _is_ rare for him to come out and ask to not be alone. That must have been why he'd had such trouble with it.

She smiles again, cutting off whatever stammered reply he'd been about to make. "Howlin' Mad, if you want to come with me to Wyoming, you totally can. Reagan won't mind the extra company." Reagan _will_ mind, actually, he'll mind a lot, but he can get over it.

Something like frustration passes over the pilot's face. "That's not… listen, Red, I was thinkin' we could –"

He's cut off by more movement from outside, and another pair of silhouettes appear on the tent wall behind Red, presumably more of Black Forest's guys. "Can't find them anywhere, boss."

"Search the tents, they're not ghosts. They're still around here somewhere." _That_ is unmistakably Pike, and Red grimaces in habitual disgust even as the tent flap at the front of their hiding place is abruptly shoved back.

Wordlessly, she nudges Murdock, who still appears frustrated but doesn't say anything further as he picks up his batteries and follows her quickly out of the back entrance to the tent.

It takes them another ten minutes to make it back to their newly-acquired command tent, well out of the way of Sosa's inevitable warpath, and another five after that to make sure they're absolutely clear of any tails before she speaks again.

"I think we're good, Howlin' Mad. Those idiots will be scrambling for new parts for _weeks_ ," she says with a grin, setting her bag down behind some crates in case someone comes looking for them, and Murdock does the same with his batteries. BA has already been here and left, if the tarp-covered object leaning against the table that looks oddly similar to a car door is anything to go by.

The pilot chuckles in agreement, but it doesn't escape her notice that it's somewhat more subdued than usual. More exasperated than confused now, she turns to him and flicks on a nearby lantern, eyeing him suspiciously with her hands on her hips.

"Alright man, out with it. What's got you acting so weird? Weirder than usual, I mean?"

Confronted with both the sudden brightness and the full force of her attention, he begins to stammer again, adjusting his cap and wringing his hands like mad. "Penguins."

"…Right, okay sure. Penguins. That clears everything up."

"No just… The LA zoo got a new penguin exhibit. They're adorable."

She cocks her head at him again, more lost than ever. "I'm… sure they are?"

He fidgets some more instead of answering, so she makes yet another attempt to dig deeper into his words, to try to figure out what's bothering him and this time come to the right conclusion, since apparently the Wyoming thing wasn't the issue.

She places her hand at her temple, rubbing thoughtfully. "Did you… want to go _see_ the penguins, Murdock?"

He opens his mouth to reply, then closes it again sharply, taking an abrupt step forward and pulling her hand away from her temple with startling gentleness.

"Red, you're bleeding. A _lot_. When did this happen?" He's pulling her towards a chair before she can answer, and she allows herself to be nudged into it, head spinning once more at the spontaneous shift in conversation. In all her years serving beside the pilot, she's never known him to be quite so… erratic. At least not this consistently, not when it was just the two of them.

"Cut it when I was trying to get the last airbag free. Would you relax? It's nothing."

"It may need stitches," he says, and he's almost frantic now, rummaging through the crates beside them for a first aid kit and only swinging back around to look at her once he's found it.

She smiles despite her concern in an attempt to lighten the mood, to ease the expression she can't quite read, but knows isn't pleasant, from his face. "Well you're not stitching a lightning bolt anywhere on my person, Howlin' Mad, so put that out of your head right now."

Red cheers internally when her comment is rewarded with a small, but genuine, half-smile. "You and BA are no fun."

"Excuse you, I'm plenty fun," she says as he plops down beside her and withdraws a roll of gauze from the kit, taking her hand as gently as before and wrapping it tightly, but delicately.

"I can do this myself, you know," Red murmurs after a moment, but the truth is she doesn't want to, not even a little bit, not when his hands are large and warm and careful on hers.

He doesn't respond even after he's finished, taping the bandage down firmly so it won't move but not releasing her hand, not removing his gaze from it, not stopping the rhythm of his fingers as they slide over and back, over and back across the wound.

The tenderness in the gesture pulls at something in her chest, at that feeling she's tried so hard to bury, to abandon, to forget, and she opens her mouth to make a quip to hide it, to expel the heaviness from the room.

And then she can't, because he's finally looking up at her, and she sees something she's never seen his face before – something deep, and intense, and familiar.

And she knows.

"Murdock –" she tries, because she has to be wrong, she has to be, there's no way she's seeing what she's seeing, because it didn't make sense when it happened to her, how could it happen twice? How could it be _reciprocated_?

"Yes," he says, and it sounds like an answer but not in response to his name, and she frowns.

"Yes what?"

"Yes, I want to see the penguins. Will you… will you come with me? When we get back?"

She knows what he's asking now, what he really wants, but she's so stunned she does the only thing she can think to do, which is deflect. "Yeah, sure. Have you already asked the others?"

He sighs then, like she's being obtuse and she _is_ , but she can't help it, because things like this don't happen to her and she has no idea how to respond in case she's reading this wrong.

(She really, really isn't, though.)

"I was thinkin' it could be… just us. You – you know, like a… well, like a –"

He looks just as nervous as she feels, but the difference is he's plowing ahead instead of pulling away, and she swallows, takes a deep breath, and finally, finally, meets him head-on.

"Howlin' Mad, are you asking me on a date?"

"Yes," he says in a rush.

"Then yes," she replies, equally as fast, and the smile that breaks across his face nearly makes her lunge for him, to embrace or kiss or possibly throttle for making her feel things, she isn't sure.

But, just like Paris, now isn't the time for that step. Now, they have to report to the barracks, because they have a long day of preparation tomorrow and an even longer night of order-defying after that, and neither one of them can afford to be distracted.

But _after_ … well.

"That's… that's great, Red. You'll love 'em, I promise," he's saying, breaking through her racing thoughts, and she wants to jump up and dance and do cartwheels.

 _Howlin' Mad, I love_ you _._ She gives him a soft smile rather than tell him that, though, because it's definitely not time for _that_ step, either. Instead, she cups his face with her free hand and gently – reluctantly – pulls the other from his grip, trying and failing to ignore the way he seems to lean into her touch. _How long has he felt like this,_ she wonders, _how long have I been missing it?_

"We should get going before somebody catches the light and comes snooping around."

He gives a soft hum of agreement and reaches past her to flick the lantern off, momentarily overwhelming her with his scent, his warmth, his nearness, until her resolve almost crumbles into dust right there.

But she wouldn't be Red Wayne if she didn't have incredible willpower, and as a result she's able to stand without embarrassing herself, brush dust from her bloody pants – apparently her hand had been injured worse than she'd thought – and tug him up out of his own seat.

And together, they walk side-by-side from the tent. There will be problems that arise from this, she knows, issues with the team and his rank in relation to hers and what the brass would do if they found out, but tonight's not the night for worrying about any of that.

Tonight, they are together, and they've got plans to see the penguins, and it's enough.

* * *

The team spends the next full day in prep, avoiding Sosa and her two lapdogs, as well as the Black Forest stooges, with practiced ease.

Murdock and Face sneak off to the media tent early that morning, swiping a camera and press credentials and likely a woman's heart in the process, if the way Face is grinning when he returns is anything to go by.

BA spends the day developing a magnet out of one of the batteries Murdock had stolen, and tinkering with his bike again when Face finally takes it to conceal in his contraband camera. She personally spends the day with Hannibal, helping him construct a pair of zip lines and corresponding handlebars to use with them. It had been her idea to use the poles from Black Forest's flags for that particular project, and she's only too pleased with how well they turn out.

Their progress is halted only once, when Murdock sneaks by, covered entirely in blue paint he'd gotten from who only knows where, and wipes his dripping hands all down the back of her shirt before giggling and running off.

Naturally she'd had to chase him down, threatening to cut off several of his limbs as he'd continued to shamelessly flick paint at her. She'd stopped only when BA stepped in, bodily halting her progress by picking her up around the waist and carrying her, kicking and squirming, back to Hannibal's side.

"Having fun, Lieutenant?"

"I'll get my revenge for this, he'll see. It may not be swift or particularly original, but it will be _terrible_."

The Colonel only laughs with that annoying twinkle in his eye he'd had since Paris, since he'd worked out her deepest secret with a glance, and she ducks back down over her work to hide her flaming face from him.

That night, they are huddled around a bonfire, their work finished, their preparation complete. General Morrison sits with them as they laugh and talk and drink, and she's leaning on Murdock's shoulder, one of BA's bandanas securing her wild hair in place and her ruined shirt replaced with one of Face's, and one of Hannibal's spare cigars is perched between her lips.

And in that moment, everything is perfect.

"You guys ready to go downtown?" asks the General in that quiet way of his, and she and her boys give cheers of agreement and raise their glasses. Morrison's eyes find hers, warm and soft and, bizarrely, just a little bit sad.

"You gonna take care of these boys, Lieutenant?" It's an old joke between them, starting with the day he'd found out Hannibal had taken a woman on his team, saying it was about time the Colonel had gotten someone with some sense on his side. This had, of course, been before he – before anyone – knew how very reckless she could be, knew what lengths she'd go to in order to aid her team.

"Till my dying day!" she crows, her voice loud and bright and elated with the prospect of yet another impossible mission laid out before them, and her boys cheer yet again.

The General smiles once more, but it looks even sadder than his eyes had been, and he raises his glass to the sky one last time and bids them all good luck.

And then it's time.

* * *

Here is the plan.

The stolen engraving plates and over a billion dollars are being transported through Bagdad via armored convoy. Both are kept in an armored semi, surrounded in the front and back by cars loaded down with trigger-happy thugs.

They have four-point-six miles to secure both the plates and cash, take out the thugs, and, of course, _survive_ , all without the convoy ever stopping.

Face will come into play by entering a hotel near the target point using his confiscated press pass and battery-turned-magnet-turned-camera, before sneaking down through the connecting sewer to the access point directly below the road the convoy will be using.

From there, he'll use the magnet inside the camera to hitch a ride on the undercarriage of the semi carrying the plates and money. If he can time it right, and manage to hold on, _and_ take out one of the guard trucks behind him using metal spikes designed for exactly this purpose, step one will be complete.

BA will be waiting in a nearby alley with a motorcycle full of gas, which will serve as a very literal, very explosive roadblock for the remaining guard truck in the rear. He'll attempt to leap clear in time to avoid being roasted alive and aim his jump to land directly on the semi, and if he can take control of the vehicle, they'll have finished step two.

Step three is where she and Hannibal come into play – he'll slide down from a nearby rooftop on the first makeshift zip line, hopefully landing on top of the semi, and she'll do the same a little farther up the street, and the pair of them will clean up any thugs left over from BA's forced takeover.

After this, BA will swing the semi towards the river, and she, Hannibal, and Face – assuming he's still alive by that point – will begin attaching as many airbags as possible to the container before the front guard realizes what's happening and kills them all.

At that point, BA is to make sure the semi is headed on a collision course for the river and then secure himself inside the container with the plates and money, and she's to climb back up to the top of it and assist Hannibal and Face in firing at the remaining guard truck.

At least until the semi flies off the road and into the water below them, of course, at which point hopefully the airbags will deploy, keeping the semi and its contents afloat, so Murdock can swoop in on his chopper, take out the truck firing at them if necessary, and pluck the container holding the stolen goods and BA out of the water.

From there, it's a straight shot back to base, and if they've all survived and BA doesn't kill them for tricking him into flying – again – then the mission will be a success and they hopefully won't be court martialed for directly defying the Department of Defense.

And, to her own private surprise, this unbelievable plan goes off without a single hitch.

Until it doesn't.

* * *

They land back at the base with the usual fanfare, and it sounds like Morrison is on his way to greet them personally, but it's difficult to hear anything with BA still kicking up a fuss inside the container.

"Not it!" she calls immediately, touching a finger to her nose, leaving Face and Hannibal to argue over who, exactly, is going to let him out.

In the end, Murdock, of all people, is the one to convince the furious corporal to abstain from force-feeding them all their shoes by promising to make some of his frankly excellent curry as an apology. It has the desired effect, and when the door finally opens, BA is still grumbling, but considerably less murderously than before.

Behind him are stacks and stacks and _stacks_ of money, more money than she's ever seen or will see again, and she has to side with BA when he grouches about going through all that trouble to not even be able to spend a dollar of it.

"Money can't buy happiness," Murdock points out, and she makes a face at him.

"No, but think of all the pretty, _pretty_ guns I could have, Howlin' Mad."

To her right, she can see a familiar armored car approaching, and she nudges Hannibal to signal the arrival of the General as they begin to head in that direction. She's got one arm wrapped around Face's neck – he still smells like a sewer and she wastes no time in telling him so – and the other wrapped around Murdock's, and BA is still grumbling, but laughingly, as he walks ahead of them next to Hannibal.

She's got her boys, she's completed her mission, and this is the last normal moment of her life.

The Colonel is already lighting a cigar, habitual phrase already on his lips as they move as one unit to greet Morrison. "I love it when a plan comes –"

And then Morrison's car explodes in a blast so loud the ground shakes, and everything goes spectacularly to hell.

Immediately they're running for the flaming remains of the truck, guns in hand for all the good they'll do, and for a full fifteen seconds all they can do is watch, horrified, as it burns.

And then movement, out of the corner of her eye, and she's already swiveling, AR-15 cocked and aimed.

"Colonel!" she yells, because it's Pike and Black Forest, running away from the container with a briefcase that can only hold the stolen engraving plates they'd just reclaimed.

"Contact rear!" the Colonel responds in the next second, and then all she's aware of is gunfire. Even Murdock, who carries the least amount of weaponry on his person, has his handgun out and is unloading the clip in Pike's direction.

They give chase, Hannibal in the lead and her close behind, and there is vengeance and a vicious anger she hasn't felt in years welling in her blood, but after a moment doesn't matter because then the container explodes the same way Morrison's car had, knocking them all flat on their backs at precisely the wrong moment.

The wrong moment, because Pike gets away.

The wrong moment, because there is nothing but heat and light and smoke and burning money, raining around them like snow, singeing her hair, staining her clothes with soot.

The wrong moment, because the MPs choose that exact second to arrive, and she knows exactly how this looks and exactly what's going to happen next, because the general is dead and the money is destroyed and the plates are gone and so is Black Forest.

They've been framed.

Her eyes sweep over her boys, instinctively checking to make sure they're alive and relatively unharmed by the explosion, before focusing once more on her surroundings. She makes it to her knees, aware that the approaching guards are demanding she and her team put their weapons down and their hands on their heads, but she only knows that because she can see BA and Murdock doing it, not because she can hear them. Her ears are still ringing and her eyes are watering from the smoke and something else, something she'd never ever name, and she has never seen that expression on Hannibal's face before.

Because for the first time ever, they have lost.

* * *

Things move quickly after that. Their worlds narrow down to one cold cell after another as they are transported to DC to await trial.

Hannibal is calling in every favor he has, making every appeal he can, but she doesn't think – no, she _knows_ – it won't be enough.

She can see it in the eyes of their guards, can feel it in how roughly they're handled, in the words that are hissed at them when superior officers can't hear.

Their guilt has been decided, and all that remains is their fate.

It is a small mercy that they are kept together, albeit in separate cells, in the same hallway in the week leading up to the hearing.

They aren't supposed to talk to one another, but they do anyway, cracking jokes when they can and telling stories when they can't, and the only one who never joins in is Hannibal. He never speaks at all, actually, unless prompted to do so, and even then it's only to reassure them that everything will be fine, that the mission isn't over, that it won't end like this.

He's grieving his friend, she knows, and she's grateful they let him go to Morrison's funeral in Arlington at the very least. She mourns the General too, in her own way – her father had served under him briefly, years ago, and he had always been kind to her, never judging her for being a woman in a man's world or snubbing Hannibal, as so many had, for giving her the position.

On their third day in DC, a guard calls down the white brick hallway, successfully breaking the monotony.

"Wayne, visitor for you!"

At this, she eases herself upright, having spent the last hour doing sit-ups to work off nervous energy. She's surprised to see her brother wheel himself into her view, a small smile on his face and the hand-woven blanket she'd gotten for him at a bazaar in Iraq stretched over his lap.

She can't even speak for her surprise; all she can do is stand there and take him in. His baby blue eyes, the key difference between their faces, look tired and drawn, his body seems almost hunched in his chair, and her heart aches for him.

Her dad had always said he looked like their mom, despite the red hair and pale complexion, which are Wayne traits through and through. But the blue eyes and the sharp, angular features belong to the woman Red is named after but never really met – she'd died due to complications from giving birth two days after Red was born.

"Hey, baby sister," Reagan greets, cocking his head in the way that he does when he's evaluating something.

"Hey yourself," she breathes, approaching the bars to be nearer to him, to have some form of contact with the first bit of normalcy she's been offered since this nightmare began. "What are you doing here, man?"

"My sister's in trouble, what do you think I'm doing here? How are you holding up, kid?"

Sound carries well in this hallway, and her boys can hear them even if they don't want to, so she's mindful of her answer. "Just peachy. Hannibal's got this sorted, we'll be out of here in no time."

Her brother gives a barely-audible scoff and rolls his eyes, and she frowns at him. There's something… _off_ , about his expression, something Face no doubt would have been able to recognize immediately, but that she can't quite put her finger on. "What?"

"You should have listened to me, kid. You think they're just gonna let you walk out of here? When they've got no one else to blame for what happened? You're smarter than that."

"We're innocent, Reagan."

He scoffs again, and she feels it, the first shift in how she sees her brother. Or maybe it started a long time ago and it's only just now coming to light. "We _are_."

He studies her for a moment, then wheels closer, closer than he's probably allowed, but the guards aren't about to reprimand a Purple Heart recipient unless they absolutely have to. "Listen, kid," he says, and he's being quiet but she knows her boys can still hear, just the same, "you need to confess. It's the only way they'll let you have any part of your life back."

She paces away from him, and it probably looks like she's considering it when really she's trying very hard not to reach through the bars and strangle him.

"Confess to what, Reagan? We're _innocent_. I'm not about to take the fall for something I didn't do."

"I never said _you_ had to."

Her heart stops cold then, because there's no way, _no way_ , he's suggesting what it sounds very much like he's suggesting.

"Why are you really here?" she asks, and when he doesn't answer right away, she _knows_. He hadn't come because he was worried. He'd barely so much as called after Egypt, this shouldn't have been any different.

No, he came because he'd been asked to. Because someone up high thought that by sending her brother, by emotionally manipulating her because she's a _woman_ and of _course_ the weakest member of the A-Team, she'd give them something they could use.

They need someone to blame, and they want _her_ to point the finger, and they want her to point it at Hannibal.

 _When Hell freezes over_ , she thinks, and balls her hands into fists.

"Reagan, why are you here?" she repeats, very deliberately. She's going to give him the benefit of the doubt, a chance to prove she misheard, that she jumped to the wrong conclusion in her paranoia, because if she's right – and she desperately, _desperately_ wants to be wrong – then she wants to be _sure_ before she takes her next step to protect herself, and more importantly her boys.

Her hopes are dashed when he wheels even closer and, futilely, lowers his voice even more.

"Red, you have to tell them Colonel Smith _made_ you do this. Or that you didn't know what you were getting into. That you trusted your team, and they betrayed you. Something. You cut a deal, you tell them what they want to hear, and they'll let you come home."

Everything just sort of stops. The blood in her veins, the breath in her lungs, the tremble she's had in her hands since the moment Morrison died, all of it, just still. The heart that had ached for him when he first wheeled up to the bars has now set itself against him.

Then, very, very carefully, she turns back around to look at him. The expression on her face must give him pause, because he very subtly moves himself out of her reach. It's a good thing too, because if it weren't for the bars she'd already have her hands around his throat.

"So you want me to lie. And not only to lie, but to lie in court. And not only to lie in _court_ , but to do it to save my own skin, at the cost of my team? You want me to play the victim and throw them under the bus, _my_ boys, men I've fought with and nearly died for, and _would_ have died for, happily, and for what? _Huh?_ A chance to come home with _you?_ You make me _sick_ , Reagan!" She doesn't realize she's shouting until the echo of her voice has already died, and her blood is buzzing and her hands are trembling and she wants to rip something _apart_. It's been a very long time since she's been this angry.

"Red, keep your voice down," Reagan tries, looks back down the hallway where the rest of her team have no doubt already heard, and she snarls at him.

"Dad would be ashamed of you."

"He was ashamed of me anyway," Reagan snarls back, which is honestly such a lie but she can tell it's one he's told himself so many times he'll never be convinced of anything else. "I just want what's best for you. I'm your _brother_ , Rosalie, can't I want that?"

The sound of her given name in his mouth only serves to infuriate her, to wring her next words from her throat with more vitriol than she'd ever used towards him. "I already have all the brothers I need," she hisses, "now get _out_."

He could not have looked more wounded or stunned had she physically reached out and slapped him across the face, which at the moment she very dearly wants to do.

"Alright, Red," he says after a moment, visibly subdued, "I'll go. But just… just think about what I said, okay?"

"No way in hell," she hisses, before turning her back on him again. Another beat passes, and she hears the squeak of his wheels as he rolls back down the hallway.

"And Reagan?" she calls out, and her blood isn't buzzing now, it's burning and frothing and _seething_ , and she hears him stop, hears the hope in his voice when he calls back to her.

"Yeah, kid?"

She steels herself, and places the last nail in the coffin. "Don't ever come back."

And then he's gone.

* * *

The day of the trial arrives, and they're given their "monkey suits", which is what Murdock has always called their dress uniforms, and she feels a little more human after she's bound her hair up in the immaculate regulation bun and tipped the beret at the precise angle.

The pencil skirt is still heinous, but she can overlook that.

"You clean up nice, Howlin' Mad," she murmurs in an attempt to lighten the mood as they enter the courtroom, looking at him over her shoulder as she absently adjusts BA's jacket. The larger man fidgets under her meddling, but doesn't pull away, a sign that he's actually far more anxious than he looks.

Murdock has always looked particularly handsome in his dress uniform, but there's something about him today that stands out, that's trying to bury itself deep in her memory. She wants to reach out and touch his face and knows that would be the exact wrong thing to do.

There's a panel of old men in crisp, highly decorated uniforms facing them, and a group of spectators to their left, Sosa and Reagan among them. Red glances over only once and then doesn't do it again.

She and her boys line up and stand at attention, Hannibal on the far right, followed by Face, and then BA, then herself, and then Murdock.

It's almost boring, at first. Each of them is asked to give their version of the events of what happened the night Morrison was murdered, and of course their stories all match. Hannibal is arguing vehemently in defense of the team the entire time, but there is one fact even he can't argue with: they were ordered to stay out of Baghdad, and they went in anyway, and there is no one living who can verify that they had been given permission by the General to do so.

"Colonel," the judge who is leading the panel finally says, "I've been around a long time. Seen units like yours. They're outlaws. And units like that pose a direct threat to the fabric and fundamentals of our military."

That doesn't bode well, and she shares a pensive look with Face over BA's shoulder – and then does it again when another judge states that Black Forest and its personnel aren't subject to military jurisdiction, and so can't be called to trial to account for their actions.

After another hour of this incredible fun, the judges take a brief recess to confer, and the four of them immediately look to Hannibal for answers. This may be a first for them, but they all know what a situation looks like when it's devolving quickly, and this trial definitely is.

"What do we do, Boss?" she whispers, trying not to panic and failing utterly, "it can't… we're _innocent_ , Hannibal. Why can't they see that?" Face is echoing the same questions, and she can feel the confusion and concern practically emanating from BA and Murdock.

"This mission isn't over," Hannibal murmurs, his voice so low it's practically a growl, and only now can she see that familiar fire in his eyes, and it gives her hope despite the fact that she's pretty sure she knows how this trial will end. "I clear our names. We find Pike and the plates. No matter what."

A gavel slams, calling the court back into order, and she and her boys stand at attention once more.

"Your Honors," Hannibal begins immediately, "these soldiers were acting under my command. Any judgement should be levied against me, and me alone."

It takes everything she has to stifle a snarl, because she knows he's thinking back to her conversation with Reagan in the cells and that _cannot_ be allowed to stand. Apparently her boys agree, and her back gets a little straighter each time as they go down the line and refuse point-blank to be tried separately. She makes direct eye contact with Reagan in the stands when she utters her own statement of solidarity, high and clear and resolute in the face of this injustice, this _idiocy_.

She isn't surprised when she hears the verdict, but it nearly sends her to her knees just the same.

Ten years of incarceration.

Separate, maximum-security prisons.

Stripped of rank.

Dishonorably discharged.

"Disgraceful," she hears Hannibal murmur, or thinks she does, because it's very difficult to hear anything over the roaring in her ears.

They start with Murdock first, and she hasn't seen his expression that empty, that lost, since the first time she laid eyes on him in Mexico eight years ago. It takes less than a second to remove his stars, and then they take hers.

She can't help it then, the near-inhuman sound that tears from her throat, because no one in her family has ever, _ever_ been dishonorably discharged, ever been stripped of rank, and she can feel the weight of her name come crashing down around her. Her rank, her honor, her boys, her freedom – they're taking it all from her like it's nothing.

BA snarls when they remove his, as this is his second time in this situation, and Face hasn't stopped glaring at Sosa. She'd been the one to go after them, after all – the one who first held them responsible for something they didn't do – and Red knows, she can see it in Sosa's eyes, that Sosa knows they're innocent.

Red won't forget that.

She has to look away when they get to Hannibal. She can't bear to watch the best man she's ever known aside from her father be stripped of all honor – of everything he's loyally fought for and earned ten times over.

Someone is gripping her hand tightly enough to bruise – and it's Murdock, and it's okay, because she's gripping back just as hard.

Her ears are ringing, louder now, and her chest feels tight and her breathing is shallow and she feels like she's about to vibrate out of her skin – and then the MPs step forward to haul her boys away, and everything just sort of… _snaps_.

They put their hands on Murdock, on the man she loves and they want to take him away from her, _forever_ , and that cannot be allowed to happen, it _can't_. In an instant her fist flashes out and snaps the first guard's head to the side, spraying blood from his mouth and dropping him like a rock, and then all hell breaks loose.

Two more MPs shove Murdock out of the way to try to restrain her, which only enrages her further, and Face and BA leap to her defense as more come around from Hannibal's side. They devolve into a mass of fists and flailing limbs and if only she wasn't in this stupid skirt, she'd kill them, she'd kill them _all_ for trying to take her brothers away.

A gavel goes down somewhere, and someone tells Hannibal to get his people under control, like that matters now, like any of it matters, like Hannibal has to take orders from them even though they've just taken _everything_ –

She can hear Face screaming something at Sosa, she can hear Reagan too, yelling something to her or the guards or the judges but it doesn't matter because he's dead to her, they all are, every single person in this courtroom but her boys.

And then someone gets a lucky grip around her waist, and she tries slamming her head back but her captor dodges, and then two more come to assist him and if she wasn't in this uniform she could overpower them but she is and she can't and no no _no_ they're taking her away –

Murdock is the closest and lunges for her, but he's being pulled back too, so are all of her boys, they're literally being ripped apart. Using all the strength she has left, she jerks one arm free in time to swing out and latch on to the pilot's. They're pulled to each other by sheer force of will, and with what is clearly his last bit of effort, he leans in and presses a firm, sweet kiss to her cheek.

"Murdock –" she tries, but can't get anything else out but his name. In that moment, she's got nothing else, knows nothing else, _wants_ nothing else.

"We're gonna be okay, Lady Red," he says, and his eyes are gentle and blue and sad and she's not going to cry, she's going to _scream_ , and after everything it takes six men to drag her from the courtroom, and when the doors close, Murdock and her team and her life are gone.

Just like that.

 **A/N: I'm not crying,** _ **you're**_ **crying.  
…Okay, so I am crying, but there are painkillers involved because I got my wisdom teeth removed this week, what's your excuse? Sorry not sorry this chapter is so long. The next one might be even longer and might not make you cry as much. Or maybe it will. Who knows? Certainly not me, the author of this nightmare. **

**Anyway, the only thing I own is Red Wayne, and I guess Reagan, but not this angst because that's all canon and belongs to the creators of the** _ **A-Team**_ **.**

 **Little known fact:** Lady Stormbraver **is an actual angel in human form, and she took time out of her collegiate lifestyle to edit a story, once again, for a fandom she's not even in. She also lets me gripe endlessly about my currently swollen face, so she gets double brownie points for that.**

 **You guys really came strong with the reviews this time! I'm so thrilled! Special thanks to** CopperMax, HeavensWeatherHellsCompany, JennAizawa, SlaveToBenedictCumberbatch, TheRealAlyshebaFan, AFAN, THO12120445, and IloveSam **for reviewing! Thanks also to those who fav'd or alerted, you guys are the coolest!**

 **Please let me know what you think, I'd love to hear your feedback!**

 **Sincerely,**

 **Starcrier.**


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